


Duo, Trio, Quartet

by MezzaMorta



Series: Quartet [11]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Adorkable, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Awkward Flirting, Bottom Greg Lestrade, Bottom Mycroft Holmes, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, Come Swallowing, Companionable Snark, Corporal Punishment, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Domestic Discipline, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Facial, Fatherhood, First Time, Foursome - M/M/M/M, Getting Together, Getting to Know Each Other, Greg Lestrade & John Watson Friendship, Greg is Sweet, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, John is a Good Friend, John is a Horndog, M/M, Memories, Multi, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft IS the British Government, Mycroft is a Softie, Nervous Mycroft, Oral Sex, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Porn with Feelings, Pre-John Watson/Greg Lestrade, Pre-Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Pre-Slash, Prequel, Roleplay, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock is a Brat, Snowballing, Spanking, Spitroasting, Strapping, Teenage Sherlock, Threesome - M/M/M, Top Greg Lestrade, Top John Watson, Unconventional Relationship, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Virgin Mycroft, Virgin Sherlock, Voyeurism, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-21
Updated: 2018-11-10
Packaged: 2019-06-13 23:10:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 92,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15375456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MezzaMorta/pseuds/MezzaMorta
Summary: How did a D.I., a Doctor, a Consulting Detective and the British Government end up in a very smutty, silly, soppy relationship? Mostly because what Holmeses want, Holmeses get.Scenes set prior to the establishment of the 'Quartet' series. Various snippets from the build up, eventually including first times, negotiations and the boys' thoughts on love, sex, and appropriate behaviour.





	1. Basket Case

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies to put a prequel in the midst of a series, but keeping it here for the moment so it's easier to find.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place the day after Ch. 6 of 'The Talking Cure' - where Mycroft and Sherlock have phone sex discussing John and Greg, and whether they could ever make something work. Greg has been heroically wounded on a case, and is laid up at Baker Street. Mycroft visits to see if he can hold a conversation with the man, much to Sherlock's delight.
> 
> NB: In this universe, S4 is null and void. Not that I don't respect the original, but it's much less fun to spin off as a hack fanficcer. The Holmes brothers have always been together, hiding in plain sight and with convoluted schemes to convince the world they're at odds. Moriarty and The Fall did happen, and so did Mary and Rosie. But John and Sherlock have come through the darkness stronger than ever. Although this is an upbeat universe, they've had to go through some pain, or it wouldn't mean as much. ;) x

The day after Greg's injury, there was firm knock on the door at 221B. A knock both inhabitants recognised instantly. They exchanged knowing glances as Sherlock got up to answer it. 

As expected, Mycroft Holmes stood in the doorway, immaculately turned out as always, though not leaning on his umbrella as was customary. Instead, he held a large hamper of assorted fresh fruit. 

Sherlock’s posture slumped in exaggerated disappointment, though his eyes were alight with mirth at the sight.

“Ugh. What are you doing here?!” he huffed, sounding utterly miffed. 

_Hello, Mycie. Ooh, new aftershave. Sexy._

Mycroft smiled with sour insincerity. 

“Nice to see you too, brother mine.”

_Ah, sarcasm. Our most vital cloaking device. And yes, I do smell quite delicious today, don’t I?_

John refused to look up from the laptop as Mycroft drifted in, followed by a scowling Sherlock. 

“Knocking now, Mycroft?" John said, determined not to give the man the satisfaction of making an entrance. "Not waltzing in unannounced? What have we done to be so honoured?”

Sherlock snorted an impudent laugh. 

Mycroft maintained his usual tone of ironic civility. 

“No, John. That would be terribly rude when you have a guest. And an injured one at that, so I hear.”

So that’s what it was, thought John. Sniffing round Greg for details about the latest case, no doubt for some nefarious reason of his own. Obviously.

“Sherlock tell you or one of your terrifying shadows?” he said in a neutral tone, eyes still glued to the screen as he continued to type up the latest blog post while the details were still fresh in his memory, and while Rosie was still asleep.

Mycroft dodged the question. “I’ve brought fruit,” he explained, unnecessarily.

John looked up at this non-sequitur. He laughed out loud when he saw the incongruous sight before him.

“Bloody hell, Carmen Miranda, aren’t you supposed to wear that on your head and give us a song? What’s that in aid of?!”

Sherlock giggled with glee, which only set John off more. Mycroft did his best to look extremely disgruntled.

“It’s a present,” he explained, with long-suffering weariness.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Mycroft, fruit isn’t a present! Who wants fruit as a present?!” exclaimed Sherlock, still giggling. He made a grab for the basket and Mycroft dodged.

“It isn’t for you!”  _You awful boy. Only the mango’s yours._

“Good! Don’t want your rotten fruit. Ooh, mango!” Sherlock nabbed it, threw it into the air and caught it with a cheeky wink that John could not see. 

“Put it back, it’s for Gr – Lestrade.”

“Nope. Mango’s mine. He can have all these other weird ones. He’s in John’s room recuperating,” said Sherlock, unnecessarily. The tiniest flicker of a smirk passed between brothers as they recalled their vivid conversation last night.

John eyed Sherlock’s brother suspiciously. “Just the fruit delivery today, is it, Mycroft? Or was there something else?"

“Yes, of course," replied Mycroft, neutrally, though he didn't elaborate further.

"It’s a telling off, John. He’s here to tell me off for something," said Sherlock with a long-suffering grimace.

John nodded sarcastically. "Great. Shall I leave you to it, or am I getting told off too?"

"Just ignore him, John, and he'll go away eventually."

"Cool."

John went back to his blog and the brother exchanged glances behind his back. 

_Remember you're staying for lunch, Mycie. You promised._

"I am going to tell you off, yes. And then I am going to gift Detective Inspector Lestrade with an extraordinary amount of fruit, to apologise for your appalling behaviour out on the Strangler case. Why didn't you run a deep check before you went after her?!" said Mycroft, in his best, and worst, scolding tone. "How many times have I requested that you run all your cases through my systems first!" 

Sherlock flopped on the sofa, looking insolent and bored out of his mind

John couldn't concentrate with Holmeses arguing in the living room. "Yeah, don’t mind me, I’ll go and see if Greg’s allergic to citrus.”

John left the room while the very convincing row blew up behind him. He knocked on his own bedroom door, and entered at Greg's gruff "yeah?" 

"All right in here, mate?" asked John, running a quick medical survey over the injured D.I. He was glad he had plenty of training in professional detachment, because otherwise he might have gulped at the bare, furry torso and hunky upper arms. Bit of a test, having the man in his own bed. 

Nothing had exactly happened yet, but... A few evenings down the pub. A few knowing glances and secret smiles over the caution tape. A few shared laughs and chats about the footie, standing a bit too close. Just a feeling in the air... It was unexpected at first, but it seemed the more time he spent in Greg's company, the more of it John wanted. And he was definitely picking up signals. Definitely. Maybe.

Nothing overt. God knows what it all meant, but... The bloke was nice to be around, no doubt about that. Decent, and funny. Just reassuringly normal. What you saw was what you got, reckoned John. As much as you could say that about anyone. Not to mention, he was a bit of all right in the looks department. 

John shook himself from such thoughts before they caused the inevitable hard-on, and the irrational guilt which followed. Guilt because of his feelings for Sherlock. Guilt at being OK after everything, after therapy had helped him on his way. Guilt at being in a good place and more than ready to move on - though to what, he had no idea. It was a bit terrifying, that feeling of freedom. 

How do you go from being mates with a bloke to being mates plus, he wondered? How do you transfer flirtation, if that's what it was, into something real? He was well out of practice at this sort of thing, but maybe... No. Just stick to being friends, don't push for more. Definitely would be a complicated, hurtful disaster. Sherlock would go mental. Sherlock... Well, that wasn't going to happen anyway. File that one under Lost Cause. Couldn't be risked. But was it a betrayal of Sherlock, finding Greg attractive? He couldn't quite make up his mind. So a lifetime of singledom it was then. Another few years of celibacy wouldn't kill him. Much.

He already had so much. He had his work. Most importantly, he had Rosie to focus his energies on. Maybe he'd get round to a love life when she graduated Uni. He had a handful of trustworthy friends. He did, after all, have love, because he had Sherlock, in all the ways that counted but one. He had his own bloody right hand, even though it was in severe danger of carpal tunnel syndrome from overuse. Life as it was now was so much better than expected. It was more than enough and he was grateful for every day. To ask for more would be wrong.

Greg turned his head as John entered and grimaced a bit at the soreness every single move caused.

“Was that someone at the door?”

"A visitor. Guess who?"

Greg closed his eyes in mild dread.

"The brother?"

John chuckled. "Yup. Met him before, haven’t you?"

"A few times. Not to really talk to. He wafts around glaring in the background. Took me for a very long drive when I first started working with Sherlock. Offered me money to inform on him. Which I didn’t take, obviously."

"Yeah, you’ve been vetted," said John, casually. "Was there a leggy brunette in the car?"

"Er, yeah. Can’t remember the name. Not my type," said Greg, "one too many X chromosomes." He smirked with innuendo. John coughed a short laugh, and Greg winked at him, enjoying the playful shared understanding that passed between them. 

"Anthea, that was. He did the same to me when I shacked up here. No-one expects the Spanish Inquisition."

Greg didn't take him up on the implicit offer of a Monty Python quote-athon as he usually would have done, and had done many times down the pub. He was too distracted by the idea of Mycroft Holmes in such close proximity. He would have shuddered if it wasn't so excruciatingly painful.

"Terrifying."

"Him? Nah. He’s all eyebrows and nice suits. Just ignore him, I always do," advised John.

"Why’s he here? Did I fuck something up with the Strangler case?" Greg wracked his brains to think of anything he might have gotten wrong.

"Doubt it. Think he’s just bored. Or being nosy. He’s brought fruit."

Greg wondered if he'd heard that correctly, but John seemed perfectly serious. "Right..."

"Want to get up?"

Greg grimaced slightly. "To be honest, not really. Bit sore."

"I’ll send him in."

"Don’t you bloody dare, Watson. Oi. Come back here!"

John laughed to himself as he set in motion a bit of mischief.

"Have you two finished scrapping? Greg's available to receive visitors if you want to go and make him a fruit salad, Myc."

Mycroft scowled and Sherlock giggled childishly as his brother went to have his first non-professional conversation with the man he had a completely girly crush on. 

Mycroft Holmes breathed deeply and prepared to enter John's room, where Gregory Lestrade was laid up, injured after his night of heroics. It gave him rather an illicit thrill just to stand outside the door. This was forbidden territory, after all. He blushed a little in the cold light of day as he recalled the fantasies he and Lock had whispered to each other on the phone last night. Fantasies involving the two men currently present in his brother's home, whom they had identified as 'persons of interest' some time ago, and whom they knew better than any other people in their lives. Though how the pair of them would react if they knew the Holmes brothers brought themselves off imagining shared obscenities was anyone's guess. Mycroft wavered between desperately wanting to find out, and feeling that he'd simply die of mortification if it was ever revealed.

These two men they dared count as friends - or, at least, whom Sherlock counted as friends - were so much more than average, and so appealing, so fascinating to the usually un-impressable Holmes boys. They had proven their loyalty to his brother, and that was the key starting point as far as Mycroft was concerned. He, however, had uphill work to do to prove he was equally worthy of their trust. He would test the waters, for Lock's sake, and for himself, though he expected to discover what he already suspected - that both men rightly adored his brother, and could do without his presence, thank you very much. If it came to it, he would make way for them. He could learn to share if it made Lock happy, secure enough in his brother's love to know he would not be left alone. That was unthinkable. 

Lock was adamant that he wanted no part of anything that did not also involve Mycroft, and it made his heart swell to hear it. But he didn't want Little Brother restricted because of him. If either or both men only wanted Sherlock, but could accept his role in his brother's life, that would be workable. He would encourage Lock to put poor John out of his misery. It was time, really. As for anything further, the brothers agreed that if they sensed their chosen conquests would react badly to any sexual advance, or simply could not cope with the revelation of the Holmes relationship, this little experimental foray would have to be abandoned. Platonic friendship was not nothing, after all, and would be adequate consolation. 

Mycroft liked John Watson very much, for his fierce protectiveness, for his courage and his honour. And, he admitted, his unconventional handsomeness. He could not have chosen a better partner for Lock. It irked him no end that he hadn't actually chosen him. Fate had stepped in there. Such an insult to the Holmes brain, the randomness of the universe. But it was churlish to object. Fate, like Mummy, was not to be gainsaid. She would have her way.

He liked Gregory Lestrade too - liked his looks, his manner, the easy authority he wore so lightly, and his no-nonsense earthiness. Something else was going on underneath all that though. He could feel it. Something a bit powerful, and a bit...primal. He intended to find out more, but he had no confidence at all that the man could be induced to like him on his own terms.

He wanted to be approved of by both of these salt-of-the-earth men, but surely his outward persona was too deliberately awful for anyone to be interested. 

However, he saw no immediate harm in attempting to get to know them better, and to reveal a little of his true self. He tried not to dwell upon the idea that they may still dislike him afterwards.

Sometimes playing the frosty, interfering, perpetually displeased brother to the star that was Sherlock Holmes, was the absolute worst thing in the world. But it was more than compensated for by the absolute best thing in the world - the fact that he did it for Lock, to preserve their love and keep it safe. Sherlock too found it wearing to be constantly insulting and degrading and dismissive of him in company. Before these two men came into their lives, it hadn't bothered them a jot. But now it felt like the deception it was, and it frustrated them.

How to begin? If only one could be certain of other people's reactions. For all their deducible predictability, people were not 100% knowable. Except Lock, who was, after all, a part of himself. 

No harm in attempting a conversation to start with, he thought. 

As he entered the makeshift recovery room, the elder Holmes betrayed none of the slight fluttery sensation in his stomach. He was determined not to seem as nervous as he felt. But he caught the little twitch of irritation on Gregory Lestrade's face and became immediately conscious of how high-handed he must seem, and how the haughty demeanour he wore like a suit of armour must be off-putting and unwelcome. 

"Good morning, Inspector," said Mycroft, as he swept in with all the impeccable politeness he could muster. 

The D.I. was reclining in rather a sorry, rather exposed state in John's bed. His face, though still recognisably handsome, was bruised and swollen on one side, with sore grazes and a very painful-looking black eye that gave him a lop-sided appearance. His upper body - which Mycroft could not help note was muscular and firm and naked - was bound up in bandages stretching across his rib-cage; one rather beefy arm was strapped up in a sling, with the forearm in plaster. It pained Mycroft to see the man laid so low. He looked tired and uncomfortable, but his deep brown eyes widened at the approach of the British Government.

Mycroft assessed the expression on the man's bashed-up face. He seemed more than a little embarrassed at being seen in a vulnerable state; defiant and prepared to defend himself against any untoward accusations or searching questions; disbelieving, despite the fact John had obviously forewarned him of Mycroft's presence; and openly curious. That was something to cling to, at least.

"Morning, er, Mr Holmes," said Greg, as casually as he could manage, eyeing him warily. "Can I help at all?"

Mycroft played his usual cool hand. 

"In your current condition? I highly doubt it. It is helping which caused you to be laid up here in my brother's flat, is it not? You caught the Battersea Strangler, so he tells me." 

Greg gave nothing away. "Well, we caught her, yeah. Couldn't have done it without your brother. And John, of course."

"Indeed. That is gratifying."

Greg suddenly seemed to notice the gift he had brought, and his mouth turned up at one corner into an amused, but puzzled expression. "Erm... What's all that there?"

Mycroft felt like a dolt. 

"Oh, yes. Fruit. Er. It's for you, as it happens." He stood holding it awkwardly, suddenly unable to recall the protocols of gift-giving. 

Greg seemed highly sceptical. 

"Is it? Right. Were you thinking of putting it down at some point, or...?"

Mycroft jolted self-consciously as he realised what a prize moron he must seem.

"Oh. Yes." He placed it on the bedside table, hoping the hot blush on his face was not obvious. Though it was.

"What's that in aid of, then?" asked Greg, suspiciously. He did not seem grateful. He seemed mildly slighted. 

"It's not my idea of a thank you, or a joke. It's traditional to bring such things to the patient, I understand. Vitamins to aid recovery," said Mycroft, attempting to explain that he didn't intend to be ironic or patronising.

Greg considered this and seemed willing to accept the sincerity of the gesture, though it obviously bamboozled him. A fruit basket from Mycroft Holmes. Unheard of.

"OK. Ta very much," he said, expecting the man to depart. But Mycroft did not budge, and stayed standing next to the bed. If Greg didn't know better, he'd have said he was waiting for something.

"Are you up to eating, or...?" asked Mycroft, trailing off with uncharacteristic hesitancy. 

Greg wondered if this was some kind of test and decided to match it with bluntness and casual disregard. 

"Once the painkillers wear off, I'm sure I won't feel so much like puking my guts up. Nice bit of fruit, just what the doctor ordered."

"I'm sure Watson would approve."

"Yep."

"Mm."

A brief awkward silence fell. 

"Was there...anything else? I mean, presumably you're not just here to hand me a load of apples and pears?"

"Oh. No, of course not. I wanted to get your account of the Strangler case," said Mycroft, falling back on his cover story. 

"Right. Not satisfied with Sherlock's version? There's nothing else to it, not that I know. He was bloody good out there."

"I'm sure." Mycroft smiled slightly at Lestrade's instant defence of the world's best consulting detective.

Greg grimaced as he shifted his position. "I'm not really up for the third degree at the moment, Mr Holmes, as you can see. Anything you want to know about the case, you can ask those two. Or check the records yourself. Sure you already have. Don't need to quiz me. I went in a bit quick, she rushed me. Here I am. Just a straightforward bit of deduction for your brother, bit of handy back-up from John, and a bit of ordinary legwork from our lot. Nothing to it."

"I see." Another reason to admire Lestrade. Never tried to impress. Never took credit even when it was due. A natural leader, but a modest team player through and through. 

"So, if there's nothing else...?" Greg prompted, his meaning - 'please piss off' - all too clear. 

Mycroft felt defeated. "No. Nothing. I shall leave you in peace," he said, rather downcast. 

Greg wondered what was going on. Something was off. Mycroft Holmes seemed tentative. It was weird.

"Thanks for the fruit basket. Or thanks to whoever in your office thought of it," said Greg, muttering at the end of the sentence. As soon as it left his mouth, he felt a bit rotten.

"I thought of it," said Mycroft, frowning slightly, his mouth twitching down a little. Greg had the distinct sense that he'd hurt the man's feelings. If the man had feelings.

He eyed him narrowly, trying to work him out. "Yeah?"

Mycroft nodded, and it put Greg in mind of an awkward schoolboy attempting to explain himself.

"Yes."

"Paid for it?" Greg challenged.

The elder Holmes was definitely annoyed now. "Of course. I wouldn't send a subordinate out on such a mundane mission, let alone have them pick up the bill. Besides, my people are far too busy for that kind of trivia!"

Greg couldn't resist probing a bit. "But you're not? No wars to avert this week? Time to pop down to Harrods? Or wherever people like you go."

Mycroft scowled in obvious offence at 'people like you'. "I... I ordered it online, if you must know. Does it matter?" he asked, frustrated at this conversational dead-end.

"Nah. Just curious. Funny to think of you doing things like shopping," chuckled Greg to himself.

Mycroft's lips pursed in a little gesture of vexation. "Is it?"

"Yeah."

"Well, I'm glad to be so amusing," he said, bristling. Greg suddenly detected the family resemblance - they sulked in the same way, these Holmes brothers. It was quite sweet.

"Come on, mate. Just tell me. Is it bugged? Sherlock'll destroy it as soon as you're out of here, you know. At least tell me which things I can eat and which things contain listening devices or micro-cameras. I don't want to swallow anything worth more than my house, and I wouldn't want your lot loitering outside my lav waiting for me to pass it."

Mycroft's nose wrinkled in disapproval. 

"I see the knock on the head has not diminished your taste for low comedy," he admonished.

Greg grinned, somewhat painfully. "Takes more than a bonk on the bonce to do that, mate." 

Shocking Mycroft Holmes, even slightly, was quite fun. 

"So I gather. Your fruit basket is quite free from interference, I assure you."

"Chuck us an orange, then. Can't reach it from here. Bloody ribs." He winced as he tried to sit himself a little higher up against the pillow. 

Mycroft's arm was instantly offered to him to lean on.

"Here," he said, simply. He made no move to touch Greg, but simply stood waiting. Greg sighed in discomfort, and a little wounded masculine pride at being unable to sit up under his own steam. He placed his good hand on Mycroft's forearm, and pushed himself up. 

He bit down the rude word he wanted to exclaim as his arm and ribs and collarbone pulled excruciatingly with even that small movement. Mycroft read the obvious flinch.

"Are you in dreadful pain?" asked Mycroft, with a concerned look. 

Greg was thrown by the genuineness of it.

"Would it delight you to know that I was?"

Mycroft shook his head minutely. "Not at all. Quite the opposite," he said, quietly.

"Yeah, it bloody kills, actually," admitted Greg. 

"Shall I fetch John? Or Lo - Sherlock? I mean, obviously I'm not going to fetch Sherlock. No use at all," said Mycroft, rolling his eyes with comic despair. 

Greg snorted a laugh and winced again. 

"No, you'll do," he said. "Could you do me a favour?"

"Of course."

"Prop me pillows up? I know it's beneath your pay grade, but help a bloke out."

Mycroft jolted slightly at the unexpected request. 

"Er. Yes. Let me just..." He leaned forwards and reached with rather fumbling hands behind Greg's head, flushing at the sudden proximity of the man to his waistcoated chest. He arched away to prevent from accidentally knocking him, but his suit jacket fell into his face and Greg turned his head.

"Oh, take that off, for God's sake. Can't be a pillow-propper in a suit jacket," he complained. 

Mycroft coughed and removed his jacket, eyes averted from the patient's curious gaze, feeling highly mortified now. He placed the jacket on the end of the bed, in the absence of a convenient chair. In his shirtsleeves and arm garters, he carefully set to work on fluffing up John's pillows.

Greg groaned slightly as he resettled himself in a more upright position, inhaling Mycroft's very appealing, obviously very expensive scent as he did so. The man was a snappy dresser, no doubt about it, and thoroughly well-groomed. Greg would have called it vanity, but something about the man's demeanour seemed to belie that. He wore his clothes more like a uniform than a fashion statement, Greg thought, though his impeccable taste was obvious. An aesthete with a killer instinct. What was that all about? Armour. Layers. Underneath it... Well, who knew what was underneath? Did anyone? Greg suspected something a bit...softer and warmer than ice.

Something about the way the man smelled - not just his cologne, but the... _himness_ of him was... Compelling.  Those perceptive, enigmatic eyes, which never missed a trick, seemed to dance with some private amusement much of the time. The careful posture, ramrod straight, was well-practiced for someone who spent his life at a desk. Delicate bone structure, like Sherlock's, but just a shade broader. More curved at the edges. But definite strength there. Elegant hands and wrists. Slim hips and square shoulders. Long Holmesian limbs. The widow's peak of his hair - red, brown, bit of both in the right light - that expressive brow and refined mouth, full of wit and words. Greg detected a hardiness and a world weariness about him which spoke of life experience. Not quite the pampered posh boy he seemed? It seemed odd to think it, but the stern exterior didn't quite suit him. He was certainly rigid, no doubt about that. But there was more to him. Something about the man was just...really  _good_ , somehow. It was surprising to see that up close. Not so terrifying, after all.

Greg wondered what it would be like to crack that cool facade - if it was crackable. He was capable of blushing, certainly - despite his composure, his pale skin and natural colouring could not be so easily controlled. How much fun it would be to ruffle the man up a bit. To make his eyebrows raise in something other than disapproval. To take his bloody tie off. What would Mycroft Holmes look like in the throes of... 

_Woah. Nope. Not going to think about that right at this moment. Don't want to poke the bloke's eye out with it..._

It wasn't the first time he'd noticed that the elder Holmes had charisma and charm, but this spontaneous reaction to him was new to say the least. Must be the cocktail of meds he was currently on.

"Thanks, mate," said Greg, as he readjusted his position and tried to pull his thoughts away from what his groin was doing under the duvet. 

Mycroft didn't think he'd ever been called 'mate' like that before. John used it ironically with him, to puncture his pomposity, and because it amused him whenever Mycroft issued his standard reaction - a haughty sniff. From Greg's mouth it sounded properly friendly. Egalitarian. He found he liked it.

Mycroft blinked and wordlessly handed over an orange, feeling rather a prat.

"Ta," said Greg, gratefully. "Desperate for something with actual taste. It's been all water and dry toast since hospital."

"Are you going to be here for long, do you think?" asked Mycroft. 

Greg tried to shrug and grimaced as he realised why that was a stupid idea. 

"No. Just some fractures and a bit of bruising. No big deal. Now the concussion’s past, should be fine to go back home tomorrow. ”

“Oh. But won’t you struggle with the injuries?”

Was this actual concern from the British Government? That was a rarity and no mistake.

“Dunno. I’m a big boy, can look after meself. Got plenty of drugs to take the edge off. And no, Sherlock hasn’t nicked any codeine if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Yes, I know. He doesn’t do that anymore,” said Mycroft, "not even for cases. Not even for headaches." He smiled ruefully at having to refer to the unfortunate years of addiction. Coming through them had been the hardest times of their relationship, and he still struggled to remember the pain it caused them both, though they had gotten on top of it in the end with patience and hard work. 

“No? That’s good," nodded Greg, knowingly. Seeing the brilliant Sherlock Holmes laid low by drugs had been awful to witness. He'd seen the lad's distress up close and it had upset him more than he expected it to. Lad. That's what he seemed like to Greg sometimes. A lost and lovely lad in need of a firm hand. Or more than one, given the amount of trouble he seemed to find necessary. 

“Yes. All in the past," said Mycroft, watching with curiosity as Greg momentarily relived concern for his formerly wayward baby brother. It touched his heart, that selfless willingness to try to understand and  _help_ someone as extraordinary as Lock, by throwing cases at him and taking him under his wing at the Yard; by treating him with respect but also offering a taste of normality, ribbing him like one of the boys, even if Lock did not always know how to respond. Mycroft would have been eternally grateful to the D.I. for that alone, even if he didn't find the man ridiculously sexy.

The thought made him stumble a little and he fell back onto familiar Iceman territory. "I feel my brother bears the responsibility for your injuries. Detective Inspector," he said, chancing a gambit, anything to keep the man captive a few more days, so he could drop by unannounced. "You should allow him to compensate you with bed and board until you’re ready to leave." 

Greg snorted in disagreement. 

"He doesn't bear any such responsibility. Anyway, it's not your place to offer, is it?” 

“No. But he wouldn’t mind. I’m sure Dr Watson would tend to you. I presume there’s, erm, no-one at home to fetch and carry for you.”

“Is that your business?” This line of questioning was getting oddly personal. 

Mycroft balked just a tiny bit. “No, not at all. I…”

Greg's eyebrows raised in alarm. The elder Holmes seemed determined to prevent him from going home.

“Has something happened to my house? It’s not been blown up? You’re not using it to run anti-terror operations from?”

Mycroft frowned in consternation. This was not quite going as smoothly as he hoped.

“Not at all. I could have some of your things brought over, if you need assistance."

“I'm not having any of your lot snooping through my stuff, ta! I’ll go back as soon as I can bloody dress meself,” Greg grumbled defensively. 

“In the meantime, if there’s anything you need…”

If Greg didn't know better, he'd have said the man was flustered.

“Like what?! I’ll be gone tomorrow, and I’ve already got enough fruit to open a market stall.”

“Yes. All the same, I'm sure there's nothing you could ask for that I couldn't track down," said Mycroft, confidently.

Greg raised a cynical eyebrow. "Oh, you reckon?"

"Yes. I have unsurpassed contacts and access. Anything you like." 

Mycroft had given up being subtle and threw his hand in for some showing off. 

_Let me impress you, Gregory Lestrade. Please._

Greg didn't know what the hell to make of this, and narrowed his eyed in assessment. Mycroft seemed in earnest. He decided to set a little test. 

"All right. How about this for a challenge? Get me a programme from the 1930 F.A. Cup final between Arsenal and Huddersfield Town - that's football, by the way."

"Thank you, I had deduced that. What's so special about the 1930 Football Association Cup Final programme?"

"First year we ever won it. Always wanted it for my collection. It'd cheer me right up. But it's impossible to find and you'll never get it."

"I'll find it," said Mycroft, as though promising to track down a rogue agent. 

Greg looked rather delighted. "OK. Setting a deadline - get it before I go back to work. At this rate, you've probably got two weeks."

"I shall have it to you by the weekend," Mycroft said with a rather appealing little hint of swagger.

Greg did his best to look sceptical, though he believed every word. "If you say so, mate."

"I do. If I fail you may select a forfeit. In the meantime, do feel free to call upon me if you think of anything else that would please you."

_Blimey._

“Right. How would I do that?” enquired Greg, meaningfully. 

Mycroft seemed momentarily stumped. “Oh."

He took a pen from his breast pocket and looked around for a piece of paper. Greg held out his plaster cast arm with a daring look, and was simply astounded when Mycroft very delicately wrote out one of his private phone numbers on it, tongue slightly clamped between his teeth in concentration. "You'll have to put in a code after you dial… I'll text you that, for safety."

“Got my number already, have you?" teased Greg.

Mycroft looked vaguely guilty, and said nothing. Greg found himself lost for a quip or any more appropriate response. 

"Want anything?" Greg flicked his head to the basket of fruit, still wondering how he'd just got Mycroft Holmes's phone number.

Mycroft seemed taken aback.

"Take anything you like," said Greg, generously. "I would sing 'whoops, 'ave-a-banana', but I think you might frown at me and I wouldn't want that. Ooh, was that a smile?" he said, cheekily, at the brief flicker he detected round the edges of Mycroft's thin mouth. 

Mycroft schooled his features into a mask of composure, though his eyes danced. "I doubt it." 

"Go on, have something. Wanna share this? Not sure I'll manage the whole thing," he said, holding up the orange. 

"All right."

Greg looked at him with amusement.

"Have a seat, if you're staying."

Mycroft looked around for a chair, but Greg patted the side of the bed, almost daring him to do it. Mycroft, definitely blushing now, sat carefully next to Greg’s legs, with both feet firmly planted on the floor. He seemed very ill at ease.

Greg decided he hugely enjoyed the feeling of discombobulating the mighty Holmes, and of having him sitting like a pet at his feet. 

"I don't want to get sticky...," muttered Mycroft, as Greg started peeling the orange, and then bit his lip at the unfortunate phrasing.

Greg didn't catch on. "Use your hankie or whatever. S'just juice. I'll even peel it for you to save the skin getting under your nails."

"I am capable of peeling an orange with my own hands."

"Yeah? Don't often get your hands dirty, do you? Leave all that to your brother." Greg's heart beat a little faster in his chest and he wondered what he was doing, being provoking now. But perhaps it needed to be said. Because, really, who was this apparently reptilian man, who came bearing kind words and fruit baskets and rare vintage F.A. Cup Final programmes? Whom Sherlock to all intents and purposes loathed, but allowed into his flat for a one-on-one interview with his immobile house guest? Who was this refined, good-looking, lovely-smelling man in the nice suits, who seemed so oddly embarrassed, and had definitely blushed at him, and had done everything in his power not to leave the room?

Mycroft sighed and closed his eyes briefly at the silent accusation. Lestrade thought the worst of him. Of course he did. That was by design, and how he wished now that the Holmesian cover story were not quite so bloody convincing. Lestrade thought he was a heartless, calculating man of ice, and why shouldn't he? It was the only way he had ever presented himself. That would have to be corrected, piece by piece.

Mycroft spoke firmly and with utter conviction, all trace of nerves vanished.

"That is our arrangement, Inspector. That is Sherlock's preferred role and I respect Sherlock's preferences even if I do not always wholly approve of them. My role is to mitigate the damage that might proceed. I do not place my brother in danger willingly. I do not ever put him in a situation that is not as fully controlled as I can make it, with as many countermeasures and precautions and back-up plans as my mind can conceive of. I extract him from situations he insists on involving himself in without my permission or oversight. My brother gets his hands dirtier than mine in a practical sense, because his hands are skilled enough for the task, and mine are not. My skills lie elsewhere. But please don't think I don't do my share of the dirty work. I do whatever I must to keep this country safe, and to keep him from harm. Whatever you may believe about my brother and I, I do not play hazard with his life. I do not ever leave him unattended to, and I indulge his need to get his hands dirty as much as my conscience allows - perhaps even more than that, because he is determined, and thinks he is invincible. I have spent my life being his safety net, and I wash the dirt from his hands.  _He_ is my life's work, not the job. Not everything is as it appears, Mr Lestrade. Not by a long shot. Do I make myself clear?"

"Crystal," said Greg, and meaning it. He got it. Not control or dominance. That was love he had heard in the man's voice. It was there in his eyes. Sherlock is the key to understanding Mycroft, and vice versa. He was sure of it. He felt suddenly massively relieved.

Mycroft got up smoothly. "I should leave you in peace."

"OK. Hey," Greg called as Mycroft reached the door.

"Yes?"

"Didn't mean to offend you, Mr Holmes. I know you look after your brother. Can't be easy. I hope he returns the favour."

"There are no favours between us. And it is very easy, actually. But yes. He does the same for me. And it's Mycroft, please."

Greg smiled at this soft request. "Greg."

"Gregory," said Mycroft, before he could stop himself. Greg grinned with pleasure.

"If you prefer. Sure."

"I'm sorry you were hurt and wish you a speedy recovery," said Mycroft, reluctant to leave after that winning grin. "I thank you for your service, and for playing your part in keeping Sherlock Holmes safe from harm. And John too. They have need of your...friendship."

"Wouldn't have it any other way," said Greg, with a reassuring wink.

"No?"

Greg's face betrayed his bafflement at that seemingly cryptic question.

Mycroft exhaled with finality, satisfied at having broken some new ground here.

"Enjoy your fruit," he said, enjoying the chuckle this elicited. 

"Thanks for bringing it. Come back any time you fancy a banana."

Mycroft barked a small laugh. He turned to leave, then quickly turned back. 

"You’re a good man, Gregory Lestrade," he said, looking him directly in the eye with a gentleness that gave Greg the sudden urge to hug him. "Thank you for… Just thank you.” 

Mycroft emerged back into the living room, breathing a huge sigh of relief. He made eye contact with Sherlock from across the room, and gave him the mental thumbs-up.

"Finished hassling Lestrade now? Satisfied we haven't bollocksed it all up without your help?" sneered Sherlock.

_I want ALL the details later._

"I have finished visiting the Inspector, yes. I'll be on my way. Good God, what's all that?!" he exclaimed at the vast number of takeaway cartons John was distributing around the small dining table. 

"It's lunch. I ordered up from Angelo's but he's doubled the order by mistake. Insisted we'd asked for it, so now we're going to be living off pasta for a week or be blacklisted!" said John, still annoyed.

"Yuck. Reheated pasta," said Sherlock, disgusted. "Mycroft, you're a dustbin. Stay and help us dispose of it." 

Mycroft smiled inwardly.  _Ah, there's my lunch invitation._

"You mock, brother mine, but I will take you up on that. That'll teach you to throw about sarcastic invitations."

John nudged Sherlock as if to say 'what did you say that for?!'

They settled themselves around the table and began helping themselves.

Suddenly, John's bedroom door opened, and they all looked up as Greg came limping in. He was wearing John's dressing gown, tied loosely at the waist, but with only one arm in the sleeve. His bad arm and one side of his upper body were bare, and the loose sleeve hung from his side. There hadn't been time to collect any of his belongings after he was discharged from hospital, and the injuries made it impossible to put on a shirt or even wiggle into his trousers. He carried Mycroft's suit jacket in his good hand.

"You left that," he said, handing the jacket to a very sheepish-looking Mycroft, who had completely forgotten about it in all the excitement. Sherlock snorted and received a kick under the table which made him yip.

"What are you doing up?" said John, frowning at Greg.

"It's fucking boring in there. Nothing on the box. Smelled pasta and my stomach started growling. Think that orange whetted my appetite. Could I join you?"

"Yes," said Sherlock instantly, kicking out the chair next to Mycroft. He smirked as he clocked his brother's phone number neatly written on Lestrade's plaster cast.

Mycroft engrossed himself in his plate, resolutely ignoring the practically half-naked D.I. as he shuffled over and sat down with a pained grunt. 

"Er, mate, don't take this the wrong way, but we should get you some clothes. I'll run over to yours if you tell me what you want," said John.

"It's all right, I'll get a taxi home later," said Greg, stoically.

John shook his head with a medical man's certainty. "No chance! And what in, my dressing gown and yesterday's pants? You won't. Be better if you stayed put until the swelling goes down. And you're wobbly on your feet still. If you fall down your stairs, you'll be even more fucked. Trust me, I'm a doctor."

"I don't want to outstay my welcome, really."

"Oh, for God's sake, Lestrade!" burst Sherlock. "We're inviting you to stay. John loves sleeping on the sofa, and it'll be fun watching your bruises change colour." All three men glared at him. "What? It's interesting. Medically."

John ignored him and turned back to his grown-up conversation. "Did the baby wake you up this morning? And I don't mean him." Sherlock looked at him with outrage and was resolutely ignored. "Cos she's pretty good at keeping to her routine, really, I think she just realised she was in the front room and it startled her."

Greg smiled. "Nah, mate, she's fine. She's champion. Just hate being dependent."

"Tough, that's what being walking wounded is. Temporarily. Stop being a stubborn macho dickhead and stay, it's fine," said John, firmly.

"Yes, Greg, stop being a stubborn macho dickhead," chimed Sherlock, giggling to himself.

Greg relented. It was just easier. "All right. Yeah. Probably sensible for another night, I guess. Can't even have a bloody shower at the moment. Sorry, I think I probably reek."

"Not at all," said Mycroft, reassuringly. Sweat and pheromones. Not a reek at all. A heady, erotic combination, which made it difficult for him to concentrate.

"Write down what you need and I'll grab it after this. Give you a sponge bath later, if you're lucky," said John, grinning.

Greg laughed and winced all at the same time. "Oof, no jokes, it's agony!"

"All Watson's jokes are agony," quipped Sherlock. "But don't piss him off, or he'll give you an unnecessary prostate exam too."

Mycroft snorted into his spaghetti.

"Sherlock, bloody hell!" laughed John, flushing a bit now. Greg pretended not to be embarrassed and rolled his eyes as he too stuffed rather too much pasta into his gob.

Then, amid a pleasant enough lunch, chaos erupted.

"Mycroft, stop hogging the bolognese, that's mine!" complained Sherlock, reaching across the table. Mycroft scowled.

"I am not hogging it, I just have the carton at this end of the table! You could simply ask politely for me to pass it to you, you uncivilised fiend."

"And you've got all the garlic bread!" Sherlock was definitely whining now. All very familiar in private, but not usually in front of company. Mycroft could see what he was up to and wondered what the outcome would be. 

"I don't want it! I don't even like it. There, take it!" He passed the plate over brusquely.

"S'the best bit!" said John, with his mouth full. 

Sherlock gave his brother a withering look. "Give it to Greg, idiot. He hasn't eaten for ages, you're well-fed all the time."

"Be quiet and mind your own business!" insisted Mycroft, feigning indignant outrage at being accosted so rudely. As if he wasn't used to it.

"Oi, both of you bloody shut up. Doing my head in. I'm recovering from a concussion, I don't need the pair of you bickering like a pair of fishwives!" Greg intervened, looking a bit cross. A bit wonderfully cross, thought both Holmes brothers simultaneously. Very promising. 

"We are not, Lestrade! And anyway it's Mycroft's fault for being such a glutton! You're only allowed the horrible salad!"

"Oh, lay off, mate," grumbled John, a bit disgruntled for Mycroft's sake. He didn't exactly feel sorry for the bloke, but Sherlock seemed to be on one all of a sudden.

"Sherlock, stop scraping the fork on the plate, you know it sets my teeth on edge," complained Mycroft, grimacing at the hated noise.

"Ha. Good," huffed Sherlock, scraping even more. He cast a sarcastic 'so there' smile at his brother.

Mycroft gritted his teeth. "Stop it at once!"

"Shan't!"

"Sherlock Holmes!" 

The brothers glared at each other, facing off across the table.

"Trying to eat in peace here!" complained John, reluctant to get involved but desperate to shut them up. 

They ignored him. Because of course they did. 

"Bugger off the cannelloni, that's mine too!" insisted Sherlock, grabbing the box from Mycroft's hand. 

"Selfish little beast!"

Greg looked at them like they'd lost their minds. 

"Are they always like this, John? You're behaving like a pair of kids! Were you raised by wolves?" asked Greg, incredulously. 

"No, by Mummy," said Sherlock, puzzled at this odd comment. 

"She should have given you both a bloody good hiding if you ask me," Greg muttered, darkly. 

"Ha!" exclaimed John, spraying garlic bread everywhere.

The Holmes boys fell silent, exchanging glances. Odd, embarrassed, but almost triumphant glances. 

"What's that supposed to mean?" said Sherlock in outrage, hoping for elaboration. 

"It means, Sherlock, that you both could have done with a smacked arse when you were younger, and maybe you'd have better table manners. Stop winding each other up, it's gettin' right on me tits."

"I don't need a smacked arse, Lestrade.  _Mycroft_ does though, don't you?" said Sherlock, slyly. 

Mycroft looked horrified. "Shut. Up." he said, through gritted teeth. 

"Mycroft would  _love_ it," teased Sherlock in a grating sing-song voice.

John was choking on a giggling fit now. 

Greg caught the mortified, flushed face on the elder Holmes brother and realised a nerve had been hit. And wasn't that a thought?

"Sherlock, leave him alone and eat your food. Now," ordered Greg, with quiet menace. 

"But - "

"Don't push it. Behave your-bloody-selves."

Sherlock tilted his head at the tone of voice, blinked curiously, and instantly shut his mouth. 

"OK, Greg," he said, amiably. 

"As you say, Gregory," said Mycroft, as though such comments were made all the time.

John's eyebrows raised in sheer astonishment. 

A little frisson of something shimmered in the air, and they finished their lunch in companionable quiet, all pretending not to be intrigued at what had just passed here.


	2. Mycroft takes the plunge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dialogue only. After Greg's injury, and with Sherlock's relentless nagging, Mycroft does something he's never done before - asks a man out on a date.

_***_

_Baker Street_

_***_

"So?!"

"So what, Lock?"

"So have you read any good books lately? How is it going with Lestrade, cretin?!"

"I don’t know! We’ve become sort of ‘friends’, I think.”

“Ugh, don’t let it settle there, how boring.”

“Says you! Are you ever going take my advice and test the waters with John?”

“I’m gearing up for it, but… You know he and Greg have shagged, don’t you?”

 “Yes. I do.”

“Jealous?”

“Not really. A bit. You?”

“A bit. Not really. It’s all disgustingly sweet. I think they’re calling it ‘mates with benefits’, or something awful like that.”

“Ghastly phrase.”

“Seems highly appropriate - I’m definitely benefitting from it. Improved his mood at home no end. He’s been letting me get away with all sorts. Greg must be a good lay…”

“Don’t! I may never find out at this rate. At least you know how John feels about you already. I have no such guarantee with Gregory.”

“Well, find out, you dolt! I’m fed up of you mooning over him like a lovesick schoolgirl! You haven’t even had dinner with him!”

“The closest we’ve come is sharing an orange."

"What a cheap date you are, Mycroft."

"Oh, shut up. I don't know..."

"Just tell him to fuck you."

"Sherlock!"

"Well! What else? I don't know. What do normal people do? Take him out somewhere."

"Hmm. That sounds all right. When you say 'take', you mean 'ask'?"

"I mean take. Don't bloody ask him, what if he says no?!"

"Oh, thank you, now I feel entirely confident."

"Turn up in the car, kidnap him, take him somewhere nice. Not the Diogenes. You have to be able to hold a conversation. He likes it when you talk. Goes all dopey-eyed - if only he knew how hard it was to shut you up!"

"I am not going to do that, Sherlock. I am going to ask. Kidnapping a date would be a new low in antisocial behaviour, even for me.”

"Ha, good. Knew you wouldn't let me down."

"Oh, God, how do you ask a man out to dinner?!"

"Dunno. Me and John just get takeaway."

"You and John are louts."

“Yep.”

“Please just get on with Phase One, brother. We’re not getting any younger. Tell him.”

“Not yet, Mycie. Soon.”

“He’s not going to refuse you. Ridiculous boy.”

“You just get on with seducing Lestrade, or letting him seduce you. Hurry up, I want my turn!”

“So selfish. But yes. It’s approaching crunch time. Oh, God, why are we doing this again?”

“Because we’re greedy little beasts.”

“I prefer to think of us as extraordinarily complex humans in continual search of new information.”

“Mm. Emotional education. Our greatest endeavour.”

“Exactly. I would never stand in the way of your education, brother mine. And to achieve it, we have need of complementary others.”

“Precisely. I can't provide the authority and command that part of you requires. And I can't share your extremely tedious hobbies either. It would be nice for you to have someone who liked all the old rubbish you like.”

“Yes, thank you. And it goes without saying that I cannot be quite the energetic playmate and co-conspirator Lockie requires, in order to allow him to misbehave to his full potential. Nor can I revel in the flouting of authority which you seem to need like oxygen.”

“We must have range, Mycie.”

“Indeed. I always preferred a symphony to a concerto. And I loathe Picasso's Blue Period. Use all the bloody colours or put the brush down, say I.”

“Agreed. Use all the bangy explodey things in the chemistry set of life. I like bangy things.”

“I like dynamics, Lock. I like recipes. And I think a wonderful balance could be struck with the right ingredients.”

“Yep. Playmates, as agreed.”

“One each. Then perhaps… Triangles are all well and good, I suppose. But I prefer squares.”

“That's because you are one.”

“Probably, yes. The OCD prefers even numbers. Much more orderly. Divisible into equal, easily-shared parts.”

“Then for God’s sake, go and get Greg. Or I will.”

“Paws off. One thing at a time, brother.”

“Boring. But yes. Fine. One thing at a time.”

***

_Hampstead_

_***_

"Right, Holmes. Pull yourself together. It’s only a matter of correct phrasing. 'Lestrade. Gregory. I have a few things I'd like to pick your brains about'... No, no. He won't believe that. 'Gregory, I would like to ask you...' Too avoidant. 'Gregory, would you do me the honour...' No, you're not proposing marriage to him, you imbecile... 'You're very handsome and I have a terrible fancy for you, please have dinner with me or I might die.' Oh, God, why is this so difficult?!"

***

_Lambeth_

_***_

"Oh. Shit. What's wrong?"

"Nothing whatsoever."

"What are you doing here in the middle of the night?"

"I... I have something urgent to discuss with you, Lestrade."

"I thought we'd agreed on Greg. Look, whatever it is, I'm sure I don't know anything about it."

"May I...?"

"Yeah, course. Come in. Tea? Do we need tea?"

"No. I won't keep you long.”

"So...?"

"Erm. Right. Perhaps if you sat down first."

"Bloody hell. What's going on?" 

"I've thought about this quite a lot, and I don't really see any other way forward, so even if this is entirely pointless, I should still like to have said it."

"Said what? What's the matter?! Just spill it, I can take it."

"For some time now... We've known each other for some years - sort of, but not much, really... Except this last few months…”

“Yeah. Had some nice chats, you and me, and hardly any about work. Oh, did you want your films back? Never thought I’d get into Tracey and Hepburn, but I can see the appeal. Also - Hitchcock. Blimey. Dunno why I’ve never really appreciated his stuff before”

“Oh, yes. I shall give you back yours. I’m afraid I didn’t get on with the Carry Ons, but the 1970s folk horror was most interesting.”

“Cool. You didn’t come just for your films, did you?”

“No. No. I was just going to say… You're very good to my brother, and that's very important to me.”

“Er. Yeah. You know I like him, pain in the arse though he is.”

“And John Watson…trusts you, which is likewise a good indicator...”

“Ahem. Yeah. Good bloke, John.”

“You have affection for them. Both of them, I think.”

“Well, yeah, but don’t tell them or I’ll never hear the end of it. Not warning me off, are you?”

“Not at all. You're obviously an extremely... I mean to say, I think you are a very... I believe you to be..."

"Deep breath, mate."

"Look here, Lestrade - I like you very much and I consider you a friend, the first one I’ve ever had, and I think you don't completely dislike me, but also you don't really know me, and would you perhaps care to have dinner with me one day, not for any ulterior motive, but if not that's perfectly understandable and fine, I will never mention it again, I just thought it would be a pleasure to know you better because you're nice and you make me laugh and nobody makes me laugh except Sherlock and also you have kind eyes Gregory? Right, that's that. I'll go now. Sorry."

"Woah there, hang on. Don’t bolt off! What was that...?" 

"Nothing. Forget it, please."

"Nah, you definitely just had a good old blurt there." 

"I did. Please ignore it. A moment of madness."

"Did you just ask me out on a date, Mycroft Holmes? Somewhere in the middle of all that?"

"No."

"Oh. Shame."

"Is it?"

"Yeah. Bloody shame, that. Cos if you had, I might have thought about it."

"Would you?"

"Yeah. But seeing as you didn't, we'll never know what I might have said, will we?"

"No. Quite. Thank you. I'll go..."

"Wait a sec, I haven’t had a turn yet.”

“I beg your pardon?”

"Well, you’ve had your turn. Sorry to break it to you, but you weren’t very good at it.”

“No. I haven’t had any practice.”

“So do you mind if I ask you out on a date, or will you be offended?" 

"Erm. No."

"No, I shouldn't ask, or no, you don't mind?"

"I don't mind."

"Fancy going out for dinner sometime, Myc?"

"Oh."

"That's not an answer to my question, now is it?"

"No. I mean, no that wasn't an answer, but I do have an answer and the answer is yes. Yes."

"Not hard, is it?"

"Yes. No." 

"You all right, love?"

"Hello, I'm Mycroft Holmes. I run the country and I am an inarticulate moron in the face of men I find attractive. Not that I generally find anyone attractive."

"Hello. I'm Greg Lestrade, but you like calling me Gregory. I don't run the country, but I'm not too bad at chatting up blokes I fancy. Not that I make a habit of it."

"Mm. You...fancy me? Why are you laughing at me?"

"Just sounds a bit funny when you say it. But yeah, I fancy you rotten, actually. I know I sound like a 14 year old. I'll say it better - I think you're a bit of a dish."

"I...think you're a bit of a dish. Does that sound funny too?"

"Nope. Sounds pretty bloody good to me."

"So... What shall we...?"

"Never done this sort of thing before?"

"Not as such. No. Never been on a 'date' before."

"'Kay. Start tomorrow then. Dinner. My treat. Nowhere posh. In fact, definitely nowhere posh. Here. My place."

"Sounds delightful." 

"Yeah. Reckon it will be. What do you like?" 

"Anything. Whatever you like. You have _carte blanche_ with me."

“Dangerous statement, that, Myc.”

“Don’t call me Myc. Makes me sound like a builder’s apprentice.”

“Ha! Hardly. I like it. Anyway, Gregory makes me sound like an accountant.”

“Oh. Does it bother you?”

“Nope. No-one else gets to say it though, just you.”

“Ah. Well, I suppose I could live with Myc. But, actually… I tell you this in absolute confidence and you must never say it outside of these walls...”

“Ooh, there’s a nickname! Iceman? I’m not calling you that, mate, no chance.”

“No! That is not necessarily of my choosing. It’s Mycie, actually. That’s what Sherlock calls me, behind closed doors.”

“Is it?! Can’t imagine that somehow. Mycie Holmes. I like it. Aw.”

"Stop smirking at me, Gregory.”

“Yes, Mycie. Ah, see, now you want to laugh but you’re holding it back. Go on, treat yourself to a giggle. Already told me I make you laugh. Not that I’d have noticed unless I was really looking."

"Yes. Perhaps I don't laugh out loud, as such. But there is probably much that I don't express out loud."

"I'll bet. Still waters and all that. Let's see if we can stir you up a bit, eh?"

"Yes. Please. Oh, wait. I've got something for you. I'm sorry it's so late, but you were right about it being near-impossible to get hold of."

"Hey, my 1930 Cup Final programme! Bloody hell, I didn't expect you to actually do it!"

"No? Oh. I wanted you to have it."

"Fucking brilliant. But... I mean, it is late though. You made some pretty rash promises about having it to me within days when I was a poor invalid, but it's been months!"

"Yes. It was an appalling bit of braggartry. I ought not to have raised your hopes."

"I'll let it slide. But I do recall you offering a forfeit. You missed the deadline."

"I did. I suppose the Holmes family honour is at stake. What forfeit would you have of me?"

"Gonna have a little think about that. Don't wanna waste it."

"Oh, that seems highly unfair!"

"Keeping you waiting? Yeah."

"I can wait, Gregory."

“Not for long. Mycie.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please do comment, always lovely to hear from you. Thank you to everyone who encourages this sort of nonsense. x


	3. The New Arrangement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set after Ch. 7 of 'Talking Cure'. Sherlock, John and Mycroft come to a new arrangement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to keep referring back to another story, but from now on the chapters will be consistent and in chronological order as the foursome gradually pieces together.

'Fuck' was the first word that came to John's mind, really. Swiftly followed by 'Sherlock loves me'. After that, it was all a bit of a blur. And now here he was, sitting quietly in the corner of Sherlock's room as instructed, watching him make a video call, upon which, he supposed, rather a lot of the future depended. 

Sherlock sat against the headboard of his bed, and cast him a little sidelong grin, full of excitement and mischief. The epitome of a spoiled child on Christmas morning. 

The phone rang three times before the screen sprang to life, and Mycroft Holmes's face appeared. John could just about make out his expression from his position out of his sightline. The man looked less than usually stern.

"Hello, dear," said the elder Holmes and erstwhile British Government, in a honeyed voice John had never heard before. "What news?"

Sherlock grinned. 

"I've told him."

A look of bright expectation lit up Mycroft's eyes. John saw him settle back in his office chair, like someone anticipating a good old bit of gossip. 

"Oh, brother mine. Well done. And?" 

"And he loves me, Mycie."

_Mycie. Nope. Not going to get used to that any time soon._

Mycroft tutted fondly. "Of course he does, you silly boy. He's not an idiot."

"Not always, no."

John rolled his eyes purely for his own benefit, and heard Mycroft's low chuckle.

_He chuckles?!_

"I heartily congratulate you both. He is a lucky man indeed."

"Yes, yes. He is. I am. You are. All that. But...”

"Oh, Lord, what?"

"I've told him about us too."

Mycroft sat upright, looking miffed and a bit appalled. The announcement had put him into a bit of a lather.

"What?! Already? That wasn't part of Phase One! You've skipped a whole Phase! How did he take it? Why didn't you consult me first?!"

_There's been A Plan. I am the victim of a Holmes plan. Or a beneficiary. Kinda the same thing._

"Don't give yourself an aneurysm, brother, please. Save it for the Prime Minister," said Sherlock, smirking.

"I take it from the unbearably smug look on your face that he hasn't run screaming from the flat?"

"He hasn't."

_No, I haven't. Funny, that._

"But what did he say? Does he want to strangle me to death with a pair of rugby socks?" 

Mycroft frowned with anxiety, which John thought was actually rather flattering - the gesture itself and the implication that Mycroft Holmes was a bit wary of upsetting him. Mycroft Holmes, who surely knew a thousand implausible ways to kill a man with any random household item and make it look like an unfortunate domestic accident. 

"Most people want to strangle you until they get to know you, Mycie. He said he was open to talking. Which I told you he would be!" Sherlock insisted, petulantly. Slightly more petulantly than John had ever heard him before. 

Mycroft heaved a sigh. "I never disagreed with you, darling, I simply would have rather you waited until..."

"Until what? Until we've fucked a few times, then spring it on him during a blowjob?"

John's mouth dropped open a little, and Mycroft's eyebrows flew upwards in disapproval. 

"You uncouth little swine! Don't put images like that into my head while I'm trying to tell you off. You were supposed to invite him round..." 

John felt rather chuffed at being an image in Mycroft's head. 

Sherlock huffed and persisted with his defence. "There is simply no good time to say 'by the way, I'm in an incestuous romance with my brother, and by the way, we've been lying to you for years, and by the way, would you like to have me on the proviso that I'm never leaving him – oh, and by the way, would you consider one day joining us in bed?!'"

John tried to let these words wash over him without squeaking or groaning, as Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose in despair.

"Tell me you didn't break it to him like that, Sherlock, please..."

"Of course not! Such little faith. I was very sensitive," said Sherlock with great confidence.

"And he's OK? He isn't upset?"

"He's fine... But there's nothing like the evidence of your own eyes and ears, is there?" said Sherlock, with a wicked grin, as he turned the phone towards John, who raised a hand in casual greeting at Mycroft's disbelieving face. 

"Hello, Mycroft."

Sherlock chucked the phone to John, and flopped onto his back giggling to himself, letting his two loves talk. 

"Oh, you utter pair of...," began Mycroft, jaw clenched in irritation at having been played so pathetically. He consciously altered his expression into one of extreme civility. "Hello, Dr Watson."

"You could probably call me John."

_Play it cool, Watson._

"John. Yes."

"And I'm told to call you, er, Mycie?"

The man half-smiled with a little embarrassment. An expression John had never seen on his face before. It oddly suited him.

"That is Lock's affectionate name for me. You are welcome to use it if you ever feel so inclined, but I daresay Mycroft will serve."

John resolved to remain very rational and calm. "Huh. Lock. That's nice. Can I use that?" 

Mycroft nodded amiably. "If you like. Are you all right, John? You look a little pale," he asked, with genuine concern underlying the knowing gaze.

John sat on the edge of the bed, so Mycroft could still see Sherlock behind him, laying back with his hands behind his head, looking as though he was relaxing on a beach somewhere. Not a care in the bloody world.

"I'm all right," said John. "I think I might be clinically insane, but that's nothing new." 

Mycroft hesitated. "Mm. May I ask..." 

"What are my intentions towards your brother?" 

Mycroft smiled sardonically. "Ha. Not quite. I know how you feel about him."

"I love him, and I want whatever he's offering," said John, noting that this was the second time he'd admitted as much to a Holmes today. 

"Of course you do," agreed Mycroft, accepting the statement as the bleeding obvious.

John tutted. "You've known that all along, I suppose?"

"It was hardly a great deductive leap, dear boy."

_I'm a dear boy now._

"And you definitely don't mind? I mean, it seems like I'm the interloper here..." John looked doubtful. 

Mycroft raised an insouciant brow in gentle mockery. "Hardly. Does it seem as though I mind? Though it is splendid of you to care."

"Well..."

A look of comprehension came over the elder Holmes, as he quickly discerned the good Doctor's thoughts. 

"Ah, I see. What if this is all some elaborate scheme of mine to reel you in and dispense with you at a later date? What if it's all a lie, and I'm playing the long game? What if Lock is under my evil spell, convinced of my benevolence, unaware I intend to drop you into the Thames in a sack just when you least expect it?"

Sherlock giggled to himself, and Mycroft shook his head in exasperation at the boy's inability to treat anything with the appropriate level of seriousness.

Sherlock sat up behind John and rested his head on his shoulder. John jolted a little at this casual bit of intimacy between them, finding it incredible to be able to just touch like this now. 

"Don't freak him out, Mycie! Ignore him, John. It's fine! Mycie, tell him it's fine, or he'll go off me," scolded Sherlock, with the confidence of a man who knew such a thing to be impossible.

"Please don't go off him, I'll never hear the end of it," drawled the elder Holmes, his mouth turning up at the corners. "You are quite free to have any dalliance you wish with my little brother, John. Without my interference or subversion. Though I would like an agreement that we will keep channels of communication open, negotiate around scheduling and such, and that you fully understand my role. Sherlock and I, we are..."

"Part of each other," said John, seriously. "He said. I believe you, for what it's worth." Because he could see it now, and it seemed...right. Kinky as fuck, of course. But that seemed kind of right too. 

"Good. It is worth much indeed."

Sherlock licked John on the cheek in confirmation, and grinned with outrageous self-satisfaction. Mycroft chuckled at the almost-startled expression on John's face, so clear on the screen of his phone. 

"Fine. So can we get on with dalliancing now, please?" said a very impatient Sherlock, bouncing up and down on his knees. "He wouldn't until we'd talked to you!" 

John stroked Sherlock's arm with his free hand, still trying to think clearly amid all this provocative distraction. Caught between two Holmes brothers. 

_And there's another image that merits thinking about..._

"Never had a dalliance before. Sounds dirty. How will it work?" he asked, as coolly as he could manage under the present circumstances.

"Don't ask him, ask  _me_!" whined Sherlock, poking John in the ribs in annoyance. John slapped the adorable pest's hands away. 

Mycroft tutted loudly and shook his head in well-practiced exasperation. 

"Lock, did you not explain? You're completely useless!" 

Sherlock was indignant. "I already said we could have sex and everything, didn't I, John?!"

"You haven't been clear at all,” Mycroft scolded. "Only thinking with the brain in your trousers, as ruddy usual!"

"Rude!"

John flushed a little as the Holmes brothers discussed so freely his new role in their lives. Plural. He felt rather like a new pet. No, not a pet. He felt like a catnip toy being rolled back and forth between clever felines. He was mildly disturbed to discover he took no offence to it at all. He felt wanted, and almost embarrassingly grateful. 

The bickering continued unabated. So familiar a sound, but without the usual frostiness or apparent nastiness such exchanges were usually coated in; all pretence at opposition was dropped now. This was a different flavour of Holmes snark. This was just...a bit silly. Far preferable to all that other nonsense. John had a feeling he'd be hearing a lot of this sort of thing from now on. 

He interrupted them in a particularly immature exchange during which each accused the other of being a neanderthal degenerate who couldn't even get a third class degree in home economics. 

"Any restrictions, Mycroft?" John asked, needing to know the specific boundaries of his new-found relationship.

Mycroft smirked flirtatiously. "You may restrict him as much as you like, John. He enjoys it."

"Mycie!" gasped Sherlock, in mock-outrage, without denying it. He winked playfully at the screen, and brought his hands round to stroke John's chest and stomach. 

A flicker of arousal ran across John's broad features. "Right. Erm... Condoms?" Best to get that one out of the way.

Sherlock snorted. "Pfft, don't need them. Mycroft and I have only slept with each other since we were virgins, and you and Lestrade both had full tests before you did it together! Such responsible citizens…," he teased.

John's brain faltered at the outright statement of the Holmes boys losing their virginity to each other, but caught up quickly as he realised they had researched his own sexual history by stealth.

"Bloody hell! Deduced that, did you?" he asked, indignantly. The brothers looked guilty, as well they might.

"Mycroft may or may not have seen your NHS files...," said Sherlock, grinning impishly.

"Hacking medical records?!" John was appalled at this breach of patient confidentiality, and glared disapprovingly at the phone. 

"Well, we do like to be informed, John... It seemed more straightforward to check directly...," stumbled the elder Holmes, slightly shamefaced.

"Never do that again, Mycroft, do you hear me?! No cloak and dagger shit - just ask! Bloody sneaky Holmeses!" 

"Yes, John. I am sorry.” Mycroft was the very image of contrition. 

_Woah, Mycroft Holmes just apologised to me._

"Naughty, naughty Mycie," teased Sherlock in an irritating sing-song voice. The screen did nothing to disguise the blush across Mycroft's cheek and John wondered at it.

"S''all right. At least...no condoms, then?" shrugged John, disguising his delight very poorly indeed. 

"Nope. We can do it bare, John..." 

John groaned. "Yeah? And when we... Mycroft - does it all have to be..."

Mycroft understood perfectly. "With my active participation? No. Not if you don't wish it. I have no expectation of that whatsoever, in fact."

"You don't want to watch?" It had to be asked.

Mycroft was momentarily caught out. "I..."

"He really does, John," husked Sherlock, nuzzling in to John's neck, openly displaying his enjoyment of their new arrangement to both men. 

John's breathing became a little more laboured and he gave in to the tempting assault of his new lover's mouth, craning his head round to kiss him.

Mycroft cleared his throat and shifted position in his office chair. 

"Nothing happens without full consent."

"Yep. Got it," said John, panting slightly as a million new sexual possibilities suggested themselves. He leaned in to Sherlock's face and nudged at one cheekbone with his own. Being this close to him. The smell of him - all cottony and sweet... What would Mycroft smell like? 

_One thing at a time, Watson..._

Mycroft coughed slightly and continued to try and be the grown up. "You may have intercourse as much as you like without me putting you off your stroke, John."

"Intercourse!" scoffed Sherlock, between nibbles of John's earlobe. "Just say we can fuck whenever we want, Mycroft, for God's sake! This is already an utterly filthy situation, it's too late to be a prude!"

John felt rather light-headed and tried to not to giggle at Mycroft's stern glare. 

"Is it too much trouble to ask you to pay attention just for a few minutes longer?"

"Sorry, mate," said John, pulling himself together and holding a sulking Sherlock off for a moment.

"Thank you. There's no need to fear you'll never have him to yourself, John. You already do, for you are unique, and the bond you have is unique. Conduct yourselves in any manner which brings pleasure to you both. It is not for me to give you permission, but discussion is always welcome. You will probably monopolise his time at first, while you get settled together. I'm not saying it will all be completely straightforward. But over the long term, it will be a time share situation. But some of that time may be spent all together, if you are not averse to getting to know me. In whatever capacity that makes you comfortable. I would be your friend and confidante, John. That is all I hope for."

"Fuck. Seriously?" John looked from one Holmes to the other, and both nodded reassuringly.

"Fuck-seriously, yes," said Mycroft, drily, thrilled at the way it made John giggle with mild hysteria. "I am not jealous because I have no reason to be. Neither do you. I will never undermine you or thwart your love together. You don't need to assert yourself over me, or try to win him away from me, or try to prove that he loves you best. I will never do that to you. It is a question of difference, rather than competition."

"Yeah. I can get my head round that, I think. As it's you two weirdos."

Mycroft smiled magnanimously. "The Holmes heart is as capacious as the Holmes brain, my dear, and just as discerning.  No-one has ever been worthy of my Lock but you. I look upon you as a brother."

"Yeah, we all know how you look upon brothers..." muttered John, with the sort of bare-faced cheek that both Holmeses adored. Then his eyes widened as a questing hand snaked just a bit too close to a place which would render all conversation impossible.

"Not yet, Sherlock!" he groaned, shoving him away with great reluctance. It was important to get this bit right, no matter how bloody horny he was at the feeling of cool hands sliding under his t-shirt and into his waistband, and the feeling of cool grey eyes watching it all.

Sherlock pouted dramatically at being put off again, then flicked an eyebrow at his brother, as though to say, 'See? You have help handling me now.' 

Mycroft smiled archly. So reliable, Captain Watson. Such a perfect complement to Lock's impulsivity. For all John's need to chase excitement and risk, as a soldier he never rushed in half-cocked. So to speak. 

"I'm sorry if this is unwelcome, but I do find you very appealing, John. Lock and I... It surely stands to reason our taste runs along similar lines? It's been dreadful having to be aloof from you, given how much you have meant to us both over the years. Your way of helping us in our work. Your loyalty to 'Sherlock Holmes' the detective, and to Lockie Holmes the ridiculous boy - whether you knew him as such or not. I'm delighted I can tell you to your face that you have my trust and my affection, regardless of anything further between us."

"Sentiment, Mycroft?!" gasped John, with astonishment which was only partially ironic. 

"Indeed, John. It is a Holmes's best kept secret. And most effective weapon."

"It's safe with me, mate. And it's not unwelcome. Just gonna take a bit of getting used to," said John, kindly.

Mycroft watched with badly-disguised hunger as Sherlock resumed kissing and licking at the side of John's face, making the man close his eyes in lazy arousal.

"I dare say. Now, please get on and make an honest man of my baby brother, Dr Watson."

"Mycroft, stop being embarrassing!" complained Sherlock, ducking his head into John's shoulder.

"Mycroft...why don't you, erm...come over?" said John, hesitantly. 

_Sod it. Let’s test this theory._

"John!" exclaimed Sherlock, looking gleefully scandalised. "Really?!"

"Yeah. Prove a point, wouldn't it? Trust. No time like the present. Besides, doesn't sound like we'll have to steal moments when it's just the two of us."

"Ha, and it's making you hard just thinking about it! Knew it would," said Sherlock, pouncing on his new playmate and struggling to whip off his t-shirt. 

John dissolved into snorting laughter as he was haphazardly stripped and found himself with an armful of wiggling Holmes. The phone clattered to the floor and John heard a faint groan emanating from it.

Sherlock shrugged off his clothes with ease, and threw himself at John, loving their mutual nudity more than he could express.

"Better get a move on, Mycie!" called Sherlock. "Before it's all over..."

"Oh, I can make it last, mate. Don't you worry about that," husked John, leaning in for a long snog. He grinned against Lock's mouth as he heard the line go dead.

“Hmm, now,” said John, trapping Sherlock beneath him, looking him over thoughtfully, as though examining a new car. “What have we got here, then?”

He gazed down with a fierce, covetous glare at Sherlock’s naked body. He had known the man was porcelain perfection; that he was polished marble, and peaches and cream, and every other gorgeous thing he could think of. He had glimpsed his bare skin so often, been tormented by the proximity of his nakedness for years, as the man loped around the flat in his bedsheet, or pyjama bottoms, or nothing at all when he was hot and bothered, or simply exhibiting himself. It had been a blissful kind of hell, being able to look but not touch. But now he could touch freely.

He’d had his fair share of perfunctory shags (mostly in army barracks), or nice-for-now relationships, or mates-with-benefits type of agreements. The latest of those was Greg, who’d broken a truly epoch-defining dry spell and been the most fun and satisfying of them all. But now he could touch and smell and taste the full banquet that was Sherlock Holmes, the first and only man he had ever fallen in love with.

Sherlock suppressed his laughter as he was playfully assessed.

John kissed him with everything he had, then nosed at his neck, and licked round his collar bone.

“That’s a nice bit,” he said, nodding professionally. Sherlock gripped at John’s hair and tried to pull him back up for another kiss, and found his wrists being pinned on either side of his head. He gasped with delight at the gesture. John clocked it with a laugh.

_Just so easy._

“Quite like this bit, too…,” he crooned, licking at the little groove between Sherlock’s long nose, and cherubic mouth. “What’s that bit called again?”

“Philtrum,” said Sherlock, helpfully.

“Oh, yeah. Yours is nice. And so is this little bit here...,” he husked, identifying a patch of soft skin under his lover’s jaw which made him squirm and giggle.

“Hmm. Now I’ve got a problem, cos I want to explore a bit more, but if I let your hands go you might get carried away and pull my remaining hair out.”

“I wouldn’t, John,” said Sherlock, shaking his head definitely.

John smirked down at him devilishly.

“If I asked you to put your hands on your head and keep them there until I say so, would you do it?” he asked, in a deep, rumbling voice near Sherlock’s ear.

Sherlock whined. John testing the waters, seeing if he would obey orders. So horny.

He nodded his head, panting under John’s scrutiny.

“I would do it, John. But you’ll have to _tell_ me to do it,” he said, provokingly.

John grinned.

“Do I know you, or do I know you?” he said, rhetorically, shaking his head with profound affection. “Put your bloody hands on your head and keep them there so I can have a proper look at you.”

Sherlock’s eyes went wide. He nodded solemnly and did as he was told.  

_Blimey. Wonders never cease._

John worked his way down Sherlock’s slim, sinewy torso, pausing only to nibble at his nipples. He bit one experimentally, and Sherlock whimpered, then keened when he bit harder. He huffed a knowing laugh and moved down, running his hands over the smooth chest as he went. He tweaked at both erect nipples with his fingertips and tongued at his sweet little belly button.

Sherlock’s hands momentarily left his head as his body reacted to the stimulation. John looked up with a mock-frown. Sherlock bit his lip guiltily, and returned them to their place.

John chuckled darkly and moved lower, to the jut of one hip.

“Ooh, this is a good bit too,” he said, reflectively, licking at the flat piece of flesh beneath the bone, just before it met the crease of his upper thigh. Then he did the same on the opposite side.

“Yeah?” panted Sherlock, thrusting his hips up desperately, trying to force action.

“Oi,” said John, warningly. “Stop that. Haven’t finished.”

He skimmed lower, deliberately avoiding the prominent hard-on Sherlock was insistently waving in his face. John smiled at the whines of protest when he teased his new lover with his tongue and teeth. He kissed his way down each thigh, moving inwards sometimes, feinting as though he would move to the desired location, then skittering away again, much to his victim’s vocal objections. By the time he reached his feet, the lanky detective was a writhing mess of need.

John nibbled at the long, almost balletic toes, eliciting crazy giggles as the tickling sensation shot straight up Sherlock’s legs and into his core.

Sherlock shuddered deliciously and grabbed at his own hair with his hands, not daring to move them but desperate to do something to cope with the infuriating, wonderful tease that was John Watson in full command of his field of battle.

“Fuck, John! Pleeeease!” he moaned, looking down pitifully, hoping to garner some sympathy.

“Please, what? More toes?” asked John, disingenuously.

“No more toes! Just… Move! Do something!”

“Oh,” said John, casually. “OK.”

And with one swift move, he flipped Sherlock’s legs and forced his whole body over onto his front.

Sherlock faceplanted into the mattress, too slow to pull his hands out of his hair, and John chuckled fondly as the usually so-very-dignified detective lost his cool.

But when he saw the terrain before him he stopped laughing and purred low in his throat. Sherlock from behind. A sight to make men mad.

Unable to tease himself anymore, let alone his lover, John straddled him and kissed his way down the long, smooth plane of his back, loving the outline of subtly toned shoulder blades, and the deep groove of his spinal column. He reached the nipped-in, narrow waist, then lower still to the plump swell of Sherlock’s magnificent arse. Sherlock jerked upwards as his backside was kissed, then he flopped down and rested his head in his arms to indulge in every second of it.

John suddenly remembered he had teeth, and nibbled at the pert flesh beneath him.

“Hmm. Now, then. Here’s my favourite bit so far. God, you’ve got an arse on you, haven’t you?”

“Yes, John, I have,” replied Sherlock, adorably literal as ever.

“Wanted to do this for bloody years,” confessed John, kissing all over.

Sherlock snorted with delight, though he didn’t really need to be told.

John tutted.

“Yeah, I know you know you’ve got a traffic-stopping bum. Don’t think I don’t know why you wear all those tight trousers.”

Before Sherlock could protest with false modesty, John bit down hard on the swell of one peachy cheek. Sherlock howled and bucked wildly.

“John!”

“Mmmgh!” John hung on, clamping down on the soft flesh before releasing it with a little waggle of his head. Sherlock was panting loudly, humping into the mattress with helpless abandon.

“Like that, do you?” asked John, unnecessarily, examining the dark pink imprint of his teeth.

“Ooh, do it again…,” begged Sherlock.

“Sorry, what?” John smirked at his antics, enjoying having control for once. He resolved to use every opportunity to test Sherlock’s sexual responses, to gather data from him and assimilate it into what he already knew would be a busy schedule of lovemaking and filthy adventure.

“ _Please_ do it again!” came a plaintive little whine.

“Like it when you say please. You have got some manners, then? There’s a novelty. Should I be thanking your brother for that, eh?”

John found a new spot on his lover's rounded bottom and bit, sucking hard this time. Sherlock yowled and thrust, almost knocking him away. When John pulled back, a purple bruise adorned the creamy globe, and he nodded in self-satisfaction.

“John-John…!” Sherlock was becoming monotonous with pleasure.

_Could get used to hearing that._

“Your arse should be covered in bite marks. Does Mycie not like to?” he enquired, playing at suave nonchalance, but also genuinely wanting to know more about what Mycie liked to do.

“Ye- Yes. Likes it. Loves my bum. Likes to, um… Special thing…”

“What does he like?” prompted John, huskily, knowing all too well, and going a bit wonky at the thought.

“Likes… He likes to lick me…there. Likes to…”

John moved upwards to Sherlock’s ear, and spoke soft and low into it, making him shudder at the deep vibration and filthy words.

“Stick his tongue up your arsehole? Fuck you with his mouth. Is that what Mycie likes?” said John, rubbing his aching hard-on up and down the cleft of Lock’s backside. “Will you let me watch Mycie do that to you?”

“Yes!”

“Let me do it too?”

“Yes. Want you to do everything, John. Everything,” said Sherlock, heavy with sincerity.

“I’ll do whatever you want. As long as you ask me very nicely… Cos you might give me the run around out there, mate, but you’re not going to in here,” said John, huskily.

Sherlock looked round at him with a smouldering grin and a mocking quirked eyebrow.

“Sure about that?”

John snorted a laugh and pounced on him, and they rolled together, humping at each other, loving how easily this came to them. How utterly natural it felt to be lovers - to be mercilessly teasing each other into a helpless puddle, letting all their pent up need for each other translate into action at long last.

John rolled Sherlock over onto this back again, and launched himself down to his straining groin. He inhaled expansively and blew a steady stream of air onto his swollen cock as it twitched against his lower abdomen.

“Hmm,” he said, thoughtfully. “What else can I think of to do before your brother arrives and this all gets a little bit muckier…? Oh, hang on. Missed a bit before, didn’t I?”

Sherlock moaned and looked down the length of his body to see John – wonderful, handsome, confident John – with his mouth only millimetres from his erection, and his green-gold eyes alight with lust for it.

John, who understood. John, who had come through so much, and fought so hard, and had never broken. John, who let him get away with just enough, and forgave him his transgressions, and was resolutely determined that life should be good and happy from now on, because otherwise what was the fucking point of it? John, who had saved his life a hundred times over in a hundred different ways, and in saving him had inadvertently saved Mycroft.

A man with limitless capacity to surprise. A man who knew things about people that Holmeses sometimes didn't, and who was admirably, staggeringly courageous. After all they had experienced, together and apart, John had done the bravest possible thing a person could do: he had decided to fully live. To live well and truthfully, and to seize happiness, with his simple, extraordinary philosophy that everyone who has been through bad times deserves goodness; and that everyone must create what light they can out of darkness.

Sherlock watched his new lover with stars in his eyes. And when John finally engulfed him in his mouth, and sucked on the plummy head of his cock like he’d dreamed about for years, he let out a cry that must have made Mrs Hudson drop her knitting.

****

When Mycroft Holmes burst into 221B half an hour later, he was met with the extremely familiar sound of his brother moaning - a Pavlovian trigger which made him instantly erect in his neatly pressed pin-stripe trousers.

Shaking with anticipation and arousal, he opened the door to his Lock's bedroom, and was greeted with a sight he would thankfully never be able to wipe from his memory. 

John Watson, naked on all fours, pleasuring baby brother with his mouth. John looked at him out of the corner of his eye, and smiled awkwardly round Sherlock's stiff prick. 

Sherlock didn't bat an eyelid, simply turned to him with a lazy-eyed, triumphant gaze, and an underlying message of 'thank you’. Mycroft blew him a little air kiss, and licked his lips. 

John slowed his pace, and released Sherlock with a slow, wet slurp. He turned his head to the side and winked at his lover's brother. 

"Pull up a chair," he said, feigning indifference. "What took you so long? Been dragging this out a bit, haven’t we?"

Sherlock groaned incoherently in vague agreement, and Mycroft smiled at them both rakishly.

He did as he was instructed and sat with his legs crossed, happy to let John take the lead while he gaped at the newness before him.

His beloved Sherlock, laid out in his full glory, being expertly sucked by the man they had chosen to welcome into their lives. And John, covered in a sheen of sweat, his blondish-greyish hair in a mad quiff from their tussling; all firm muscle, with just the right amount of grabbable flesh. That perky little arse... His cock, broad rather than tapered. Stocky and blunt, like the man himself. A delicious-looking mouthful. A fine instrument with which to play his insatiable little brother.

Sherlock had seen his flatmate naked in passing many times before - the odd fresh-from-the-shower, accidentally-on-purpose encounter. He had caught sight of John's tented pyjama trousers over morning tea and toast, and poured out his lurid imaginings and frustrations to his brother over the years. 

Mycroft had never witnessed any such thing until now, and he was struck dumb by the physical charms of someone he had once considered the archetypal everyman. He wondered how he'd ever thought so foolishly. John was not every man. John was special, and beautiful. In wonderful contrast to Lock's beauty - all luminosity, and lithe, languid grace - John was rock solid, full of compact strength and kinetic energy. 

It was instantly evident that John in the bedroom would perform the role he performed out of it - safely anchoring his brother while they took their little flights of fancy together. Though he doubted Lock would have the upper hand here. Not that he really wanted it, of course.

Mycroft held his breath as John took the base of his brother’s shaft in his hand and teased the tip of his cock with his tongue. He licked round the ridge of the crown, then plunged his head down and took him into his throat with a low moan.

Lock's hands grabbed at John's shoulders as he was showily devoured. His bright eyes flew to Mycroft's face to share the moment, and he whimpered as John pulled slowly up his aching hardness.

Mycroft gasped as though feeling everything Lock was feeling.

"Is that good, sweetheart...?" whispered Mycroft, aghast at how readily John seemed to understand this. He was putting on a performance for both their sakes; showing care and attention; showing off a little, certainly, but with no passive-aggression, no hint of anything but acceptance and generosity, in full command of his desire, and theirs. 

John grunted between sloppy kisses and little sucks, then pulled up and off completely. Sherlock whinged at the loss of contact.

"Tastes amazing. What do you want to see us do? Mycie?" asked John, with hot intensity, feeling instinctively that he was the one directing this encounter. It was not quite what he expected, yet it felt right.

 Mycroft's voice was rather hoarse and distant-sounding. "I don't... Whatever you want."

“Tell him what you want to do," Sherlock insisted to John. "He likes to hear things. We both do."

John raised a shrewd, sandy eyebrow. "Yeah? Like a bit of dirty talk?"

Mycroft blushed and Sherlock giggled madly at the understatement of the decade.

John smirked flirtatiously.

"Want to watch me make him come, Mycroft? Want your brother to come in my mouth?"

Mycroft nodded dazedly. "More than anything." 

"Kiss him for me, hm?" said John, lazily. 

"Yeah, Mycie... Kiss...," mumbled Sherlock, stretching a hand towards his brother, beckoning him over with urgency. He looked down at John with slack-faced desire, communicating his gratitude and love.

Mycroft moved over, trembling slightly with the hugeness of this moment. John and Sherlock’s first time together, with him as a kind of facilitator of their partnership, here at John’s behest.

He looked at John with appreciation, then leaned down to kiss his brother. Not just a kiss. A full-on, romantic smooch which made John groan with voyeuristic lust.

John almost laughed at the power he had been granted, having these men doing his bidding, so at ease in front of him. He pulled himself together to focus on his mission – taking Sherlock Holmes completely apart.  

He had kept him on the edge for ages, delighting in the glorious squeals of frustration as he advanced and retreated over and over again. But now he gave in to their mutual need and took him in his mouth again.

Sherlock moaned amorously as he chased his climax, soaring higher now that Mycroft was here to witness this first act of love between them.

His blood electrified under a double oral assault. Lover, brother, above, below… Too much, too lucky. His heart raced as John pulled pleasure from him, until he pulsed and juddered, and came in great shuddering waves. He cried out into his brother’s mouth as he was finished off in John’s.

Sherlock fell back onto the pillow with a huge sigh of gratification, feeling utterly boneless and high. He caught John’s mischievous eyes when he swallowed, gulping down his load with filthy satisfaction.

"I'm going to fuck your little brother, Mycroft,” growled John, wickedly. “I'm going to push myself into his arse and give him his first taste of a bloke's cock other than yours. Want to watch me do it?"

"Oh, Christ...," groaned Mycroft, closing his eyes as it all became too much. 

Sherlock whimpered and spread his legs in open invitation, still spinning from his orgasm.

John grinned crookedly, then halted all of a sudden as he realised something fairly crucial. Sherlock chuckled with bare-faced impertinence.

“Lube’s in the draw, John. Didn’t you know? I know where all _your_ lube is stashed. And a few other things too.”

“Shut up, dickhead. Myc, get it for me,” he instructed, blushing a bit as his command was temporarily undercut by unpreparedness.

Mycroft smirked and did as he was told, willing to overlook the shortening of his name. It didn’t sound as awful as it usually did, somehow.

He retrieved the half-empty tube of KY, unable to help recalling the last time he and Lock had used it, when John had been at work and they’d had time for a lunchtime quickie. Such moments would happen again, of course. But now they could tell John all about it and give him something to think about during boring moments at the surgery.

John had a brief out-of-body experience as he took the lube and wondered how on earth this could be happening.

He touched himself back to full hardness, masturbating firmly as he watched Sherlock and Mycroft together. They were moaning into each other's mouths with a passion he was sure had not diminished for a single day since their odd romance began. In that instant, he knew he could find room in his life for them both. He would see what else might blossom when love was shared out and added to, instead of jealously restricted.

Sherlock interrupted his reverie.

"John...?" He flicked his head towards an altogether desperate-looking Mycroft, letting the rest of the question go unspoken.

John realised he could deny him nothing. And that he really wanted to see how the Holmes brothers loved each other. 

"Yeah. Yeah, show me,” he panted, as he slicked himself up, drawing his palm over the head of his cock. He gripped himself round his shaft, rubbing just under the head with his thumb. His thighs shook with need, and he hooked an arm round Sherlock’s leg to drag him closer.

Mycroft gazed down upon them, biting his lip a tad nervously. Sherlock merely tutted and divested him of his suit jacket, then began unbuttoning his fly. Mycroft turned inwards slightly, obscuring John’s view, not certain they were ready for complete exposure at this point. He put one knee up on the bed and placed his hands on the headboard, leaning rather awkwardly with his back to John.

Sherlock rummaged at his brother’s crotch, and pulled his trousers down slightly, so John got a view of yet more smooth, pale, Holmesian flesh. Mycroft pulled his shirttails down to cover himself.

John was slightly puzzled by this little act of shyness, but his attention was diverted as Sherlock gripped his brother’s hips, twisted his head and took his hard cock into his mouth with well-practiced ease. From his position, John couldn’t see much of it, but he heard it, and he saw Mycroft lowering himself down carefully to allow his brother to adjust.

John craned round, wanking himself harder and faster as he caught sight of Mycroft’s cock, substantially sized, flushed and fully erect, sliding between Sherlock’s kiss-stained lips.

“Bloody hell!” he exclaimed, and then realised he’d said it out loud.

Sherlock chuckled with his mouth full, then brought his legs up and over John’s shoulders with unabashed eagerness, showing off his ability to multitask.

John took the hint. With shaking hands, he brought his slippery fingers between Sherlock’s spread buttocks, mesmerised by the first sight of his rosy-looking hole; so perfect, so inviting.

“Beautiful,” he breathed, and heard Mycroft’s murmur of agreement.

He took a deep breath and gently pressed his forefinger to his lover’s sensitive opening, instantly thrilled by the way it gave way for him so easily. He pushed further until he was deep inside, and began working at the tight muscle, stroking Sherlock open from the inside.

Sherlock keened in the back of his throat, which had the knock-on effect of making Mycroft moan and shudder.

John added a second finger, stretching and scissoring, experimenting with the angle. So much to learn about what worked. So much data to collect, about the correct force, and pressure, and timing, and trajectory. He couldn’t wait to know everything there was to be known about Sherlock’s body – as much as Mycroft obviously knew.

He crooked his fingers up and back with a doctor’s precision, and Sherlock thrashed and whined.

“Yeah, there we are…,” he crooned.

Mycroft looked back at him, eyes completely glazed with stunned pleasure. He watched as John stimulated Lock on skilled fingers. When John guided his prick to his brother’s entrance and eased himself in, he felt his own irresistible climax approaching.

John went dizzy at being engulfed in Sherlock’s hot tightness. He grabbed the man's long calves for leverage and pushed his hips forward until he was fully seated.

Sherlock groaned and sucked harder as he was filled - and suddenly Mycroft was convulsing, and crying out adoringly as he came down his brother’s throat.

John continued thrusting with abandon, only vaguely aware of the elder Holmes moving away, panting heavily as he cleaned himself up.

Sherlock smirked wantonly up at John, licking his sticky lips. It was too much provocation for one man to bear. John gritted his teeth and began fucking in earnest until Sherlock’s eyes rolled back in his head. The room was filled with the sound of their flesh slapping together, and John heard himself making bestial noises he couldn’t quite recall making before.

“John!” gasped Sherlock, “Mycie, John…!”

Mycroft moved round to the other side of the bed and lay next to them, clothes set to rights again, hair immaculately smoothed after becoming rumpled with sweat. He held onto his brother’s hand, and the sweetness of it made John’s heart clench.

“Oh, you Holmes boys…,” he chuckled, between gasping breaths.

Sherlock’s head lolled towards his brother. "Bite-bite!" he demanded.

Mycroft rolled his eyes in mock-disapproval, then leaned and bit down on his brother's firm pectoral. Sherlock wailed with pleasure, and Mycroft moved down and did the same around his nipple, teasing with his teeth as John fucked him. Sherlock yowled at the over-stimulation, thrashing as his body was worked over by the men he loved most in the world.

"Fuckinghell..." panted John, as the biting caused Sherlock to clamp down on his cock, making it harder going, so much tighter... And then he was over the brink. Hot sparks shot from his cock into his gut, and light seemed to flash behind his eyes as he came. He shuddered wildly from head to toe, releasing spurt after spurt of semen inside his lover's gorgeous arse, overwhelmed by how right it felt. He was dimly conscious of Sherlock's deep groan of pleasure. As he slowed his spasmodic movements and fell back to earth, he saw wetness on his lover’s belly and realised he’d made him come a second time.

"Oh, John," whispered Mycroft, trailing his fingers through the mess on Lock’s stomach. "How you love my baby boy..."

_Baby boy. Kinky little fuckers._

Mycroft winked up at him, and brought his finger to his mouth, eating up his brother’s essence with obscene delight. His grey eyes were still black with erotic fascination as he watched John's spent cock withdraw from Lock's loosened hole. 

John shivered at the intense scrutiny. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so good about himself.

He finally collapsed onto the bed, letting himself fall in the middle of the Holmes brothers – one fully clad, the other shamelessly nude.

Sherlock instantly pounced and kissed him, and John’s senses thrilled at the sudden, heady taste of Mycroft on his tongue.

Sherlock released him and gave him a smug, knowing look.  

"Mycie, see? I told you John wouldn't mind you being a dirty perv," he said, with princely impudence.

Mycroft shook his head with the air of one well used to being spoken to in this appalling manner.

"Insolent pup. I should be delighted if you'd help me deal with that on occasion, Watson," he said, nonchalantly.

John could almost hear the word  _touché_ underlying that odd comment.

_Oh, yeah? Something else to discover, then._

Sherlock propped himself up on his elbow and glared at his brother. Mycroft merely smirked evilly at the appalled look.

"Sod off now, thank you!" commanded the younger Holmes, with imperious hauteur.

“Help you deal with him how?” asked John, innocently.

Sherlock shoved him. “Shut up! Bugger off the pair of you. I don’t need to be dealt with!”

Mycroft rose from the bed, chuckling to himself. “He really does, John. Frequently.”

“I’ll bet.”

Sherlock slapped at John’s arm in outrage.

"Oi, get off, your brother and your bit on the side are talking here," deadpanned John.

"You're not a bit on the side, John," said Mycroft, gallantly. "You are family."

Sherlock whinged. "You're supposed to be _on_ my side, Watson! Don't gang up on me."

“Oh, leave off. I’m always on your side, you daft git. But seems to me your brother’s had his hands full for quite a long time. Happy to lend you an extra one, mate,” said John, amiably.

He stood in all his naked glory, and held out his hand with a man-of-the-world, cavalier air towards the elder Holmes. Mycroft took it with great amusement, and they shook on it, sealing a bargain, as one gentleman to another.

Sherlock scowled, not liking the way this was going.

Mycroft turned and kissed him on his frowning forehead, tickling him under the chin with maddening condescension. 

"I will leave you two to glow at each other. Thank you, John,” he said, making sure the sincerity of this was not lost amongst the playful teasing.

"No need to bloody thank me, is there? Come here."

John beckoned with a lop-sided grin, enjoying how the elder Holmes swallowed hard and approached with wide eyes. He held his hand to one cool cheek, and brought him in for a firm, fond kiss.

"Mm. You taste of him,” said Mycroft, a little taken aback at this spontaneous display of affection. It was more than he had let himself hope for.

John shrugged happily. "He tastes of you.”

“Think you can get used to it?"

"Fuck, yeah."

Mycroft chuckled.

“Yes. I rather think you can.”

“Maybe next time…?” John left the thought unfinished, hinting at future possibilities.

Mycroft cleared his throat bashfully.

“Whatever seems right to you, John. We have plenty of time ahead of us, and much to share. Now… I must return to work. Though how I’ll look the Home Secretary in the eye I do not know.”

“See you soon," said John, amiably. "Come over for Sunday lunch if you fancy?"

Mycroft gave a small, pleased nod of acquiescence. Sherlock waved silently as his big brother left, and he fell back onto the bed, letting himself spin off into his post-orgasmic happy place. 

John cuddled up and they lay together in replete silence, relishing their new intimacy.

The ground had shifted so completely around him, and yet John felt completely at ease. Maybe he was just more adaptable than most. Or maybe, he reflected, this was simply what he needed. It felt like the start of something. Something big and important, and full of impending joy.

He loved Sherlock, to the utmost degree, to the moon and back. But now he knew he was not indifferent to Mycroft.

From the minute he had burst through the door, eyes wide with affection and astonishment, trousers bulging like a lovesick teenager, John had resolved to think the best of him. The man's poise and his obvious physical charm notwithstanding, he had not expected to find him so alluring, so modest, and evidently generous. He liked his sincerity, and suspected he could enjoy his company with or without a sexual dimension. The most surprising thing of all - 'Mycie' was sweet, and warm. Sweeter than Sherlock, perhaps, who was certainly capable of sweetness, though more often than not he was acid that cut through sweetness - biting and sharp, and a much-needed palate cleanser.

Where Sherlock was demanding and spontaneous, and a little bit too cool for school, Mycie was self-effacing, careful, and a bit amusingly prim. John liked that contrast very much - as much as he liked their obvious similarities. 

They were just a pair, these mad, exhilarating Holmes brothers. Complementary yet utterly paradoxical. Both were also filthy as hell, apparently, and it thrilled him to be part of another unlooked-for adventure with them. 

He had been handed this trust. He had been privileged with the truth of the Holmes brothers, and his heart soared at finally knowing the truth of his role amongst them. Both of them wanted him. Both of them looked to him for reassurance, somehow, and seemed to see in him the hero he desperately wanted to be. How intensely odd to have thought you were the one in awe - to feel unrequited and powerless - only to discover that the objects of your admiration were in awe of you. 

After a period of contented silence, Sherlock spoke in a sex-roughened, gravelly voice.

"John...?"

"Yeah, mate?"

"Are you... Do you like my brother?"

John smiled at his lover's need for affirmation of what he must surely have already observed.

"I do, mate. I think he's aces."

Sherlock sighed happily. “That’s good… John?”

“Yeah?”

Sherlock snuggled himself into the crook of his arm.

"It's nice being in love with your best friend, John."

John smiled and planted a kiss to the top of Sherlock's damp, curly head.

"Yeah. It is, isn’t it?"


	4. Mycroft needs a kick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some hints of backstory between John and Greg. John resolves to make sure Mycroft doesn't screw things up with Greg, and Sherlock has some thoughts.

In the saloon bar of The Hand and Racquet, an ordinary pub in an ordinary South London borough, two ordinary men were sipping two ordinary pints of lager.

"So, how's tricks?" said Greg, with a knowing glint in his eye.

"Can't complain. Pretty bloody good actually."

"Oh, I bet it is,” snorted Greg with amusement. “Look at you, smug bastard. Never seen a man more obviously getting laid on the regular. Honeymoon phase going well, is it?"

As if it needed asking. John was glowing like a leaky nuclear reactor.

"Yeah, actually. Sorry, is it OK to talk about...?"

John bit his lip, feeling mildly guilty for showing off his new relationship to a man he’d been getting closer to – much closer to – before Sherlock made his big declaration. If that hadn’t happened, he had no doubt he and Greg would have been on the road to coupledom eventually.

Greg clocked John’s anxiety and gently punched his arm.

"Don't be daft, mate, course it’s OK. I'm only mostly jealous. Part of me is very happy for you both," he said, sniffing.

"Greg..."

Greg grinned and decided to stop tormenting his friend.

"Honestly, I think it's brilliant. Just wish I was having a tenth as much of nookie as you two. Lucky sods."

Greg was pleased for them, that was true enough. But he was a tiny bit sad at the missed opportunity to get to know John more intimately. A proper sort, was John. He’d been delighted to discover they had chemistry in the bedroom as well as out of it. They also had it in the living room. And on the bathroom floor. And once down a side alley on the way back from a crime scene… John could take it, that was for bloody sure. It had been more than just a laugh, albeit a brief liaison. A much-needed physical release for them both, with the added bonus of trust and friendship. Still, he knew John had been hankering after that silly lad for years, and didn’t blame him for pursuing his chance at happiness.

Greg’s own soft spot for Sherlock Holmes made it all a bit more complicated. Because it was kind of the opposite of _soft_ … It wasn’t as though he hadn’t thought about chancing his arm there. Especially in the early days, before John’s sudden appearance on the scene. What red-blooded bloke wouldn’t have thought about it? The dazzling brilliance, that smart mouth with its babydoll lips, the slinky body with that arse... More than that, he liked the little bugger. Felt all protective and cavemanish about him. Something about Sherlock set off a feeling in Greg roughly equivalent to the noise ‘grr’.

John tilted his head in curiosity as he caught Greg drifting off on some distracting train of thought.

"Thanks for being decent about it all,” he said, and then his face broke into a slightly flirtatious grin. “You know I'd help you out if I could, don't you?"

Greg raised his glass in a casual toast. "Cheers to that. We had our fun, didn’t we?"

John nodded definitively.

"Yep. Lots. Glad it happened."

"Me too."

The clinked glasses and drank as mates. Slightly flirty mates.

John changed the subject. "So...I take it no progress with The Brother?"

Greg shook his head with resignation.

"Not a sausage. So to speak. Gone to ground for weeks. No messages. Think I've been ditched."

He looked a bit depressed about it. John tutted and sighed to himself.

"For God's sake, Mycroft..."

Greg looked at him with surprise.

"Have you seen him, then, since you and Sherlock started boffing your brains out?"

"Er. Yeah,” said John, with forced casualness. “I've seen quite a lot of him. But not so much recently. It's all kicked off at work, so I hear."

Greg nodded. You couldn’t expect someone like Mycroft Holmes to be footloose and fancy free enough for a social life.

"How's that all going? Not giving you evils? Turning up unannounced to pour cold water over you mid-shag?"

John schooled his features not to laugh at the unbidden memory of the elder Holmes coming all over himself the last time he’d watched Little Brother being fucked from behind.

"Not exactly. Believe me or believe me not, I've been welcomed to the family. Quite enthusiastically, actually..."

Greg’s eyebrows raised in surprise. "Yeah? New brother-in-law, eh?"

"Something like that," said John, innocently.

Greg seemed impressed. "High praise indeed. He's all right, in't he? I mean, I thought he was. Not as starchy or scary as you think."

“Still got the hots for him, haven't you?" said John, just to check.

Greg raised his hands in a 'bang to rights' sort of way.

"Not denying it. Think I might be punching above my weight a bit, though, know what I mean?"

"Nope. Not a clue."

"Well, you know, high-flying, handsome, wealthy genius. Not exactly in my league. What? It's not funny!"

John suppressed his giggles at the absurd idea of Mycie thinking he was superior to Lestrade. The British Government was basically starstruck.

"Hm, it is a bit funny. What makes you think it's that way round?"

"Obvious. Why?"

"I just mean... What if he thinks the same way about you?"

"Mycroft Holmes?!" exclaimed Greg, choking on his pint.

"Yeah. What if he thinks 'sexy, down to earth, funny geezer, what does he want with an uptight posho like me?'"

Greg snorted doubtfully, not daring to hope for it. "He doesn't think that, mate."

"No?"

"Well, he is a bit...jumpy around me,” considered Greg, recalling their initial contact with each other. “Blurted out that he liked me, and went all red before I got the first date out of him. That was nice. We had dinner, all very civilised. Some nice chats on the phone, the odd stroll out together. But he's bolted a mile since. Not sure if I said something stupid or what. Must have something else on the go. Or just 'not that into me', as the kids probably don't say anymore."

John sighed in frustration. "Have you chased him though?"

"No, course not. Don't want to completely humiliate myself, do I?" said Greg, defensively.

"Greg, for God’s sake!" John rolled his eyes. Now he was all partnered up, he had no patience for other people's reticence. He briefly wondered why it didn’t feel weird, talking to one of his ex-sexual conquests about a relationship with one of his sort-of-sexual partners. He and Mycroft hadn’t gone much further than voyeurism involving Sherlock, with a bit of mutual touching. Though he was pretty sure it all counted.

"Well, what would I say?” said Greg, with a distinctly uncharacteristic whine. “'Hello, remember me from a month ago? We were getting on quite nicely. Had a lovely goodnight snog, and then you went silent because you obviously don't fancy me - can you change your mind, please?' I've got some bloody dignity!"

John tutted at the sarcasm. Why was he destined to only have conversations with sarcastic bastards?

"You've both got a bit too much dignity, if you ask me. Look, take it from one who knows. Holmeses - rubbish at saying things. Complete rubbish. Unless it's a quip, or a stunning piece of deductive reasoning, or an encyclopaedic rundown of some obscure subject, they are crap at saying things to normal people. They can do explanation, they can do analysis, even philosophy. But sometimes they struggle to say what they mean when they're having feelings. It makes them go all wonky. Need sense knocking into them."

"Them?"

"Yeah, the pair of them. Mine responds to action. So will yours. Stop letting him dick you about, and go and...dick him about.”

They chuckled together, and Greg contemplated the idea.

"Won't that be weird? Make us, like, shag-in-laws, or something, you and me?"

John laughed. "Yeah, I like that. But Mycroft would correct the grammar. Think it should be shags-in-law."

"You really are spending too much time with Holmeses, aren't you?" said Greg, shaking his head in comic despair.

"No such thing, mate. I'll have a word, if you like? Give him a kick up the bum."

"No, don't do my dirty work for me. But... I never know when he's in the middle of an international incident, so most of the time I think about calling and talk myself out of it like a saddo teenager."

"Don't call him. He'll call you," said John, with certainty.

Greg looked askance. "Oh, will he now? Since when do you have any influence over the mighty Mycroft Holmes?"

"Since I started buggering his brother cross-eyed."

"Yeah. Fair enough."

*****

At Baker Street later that evening, John accosted the subject of the pub conversation as soon as he came through the door.

"Oi. Holmes. Need to talk to you. What's going on with you and Greg?" 

Mycroft’s eyebrows raised in alarm as he removed his coat. "Nothing, John. Honestly."

John stood with his hands on his hips. "Exactly! Why haven't you called the poor bastard?!" 

"Well... I've been busy."

Mycroft frowned a little at the sudden onset of Angry John.

"Bullshit. You've been avoiding him. Don't you fancy him anymore?"

John seemed almost personally offended by the idea.

"Of course I...fancy him," stumbled Mycroft. "I just... We had a lovely time together, but then..."

"They had two dates, John. Two!” called Sherlock from the sofa, where he was lounging with his head in a book. He sat up swiftly, seeing the chance to get more involved and stir up a bit of juicy conflict.

“And he didn't even see him naked! Just went round his house for dinner, and they did snogging. And the second time they went for a walk in the park and did no snogging at all!"

Mycroft bristled at the gale of giggling. "Are you actually 12 years old?" he said with disgust.

Sherlock ignored him.

"It's pathetic, John, isn't it?" he continued. “Completely pathetic.”

"You can talk,” said John, trying to de-escalate a potential fraternal battle. “Took you years to get me into bed. That was pretty pathetic too."

"No,” corrected the haughty detective. “It took me years to tell you I loved you. For very good reasons. But once I'd told you, it literally took minutes to get you in bed. And anyway, I thought you got me into bed."

"Oh, so I did...,” said John, matter-of-factly. “Huh. You forget these things when you're going at it like marmosets 24/7."

Sherlock frowned. "Why marmosets?"

"Dunno, just get the impression they're randy animals."

"Do you mind, you two?!” exclaimed Mycroft, interrupting before this silliness got any worse. “I simply don't want to rush anything with Gregory. Yes, it's true we had a couple of very nice so-called 'dates', but then work became an absolute nightmare, and then you two... Well, we've had things to attend to, haven't we?" he said, meaningfully. "I've been respectfully letting us settle in."

Sherlock stood up, pointing an accusatory finger at his brother. "We've hardly seen you for weeks either. Work. Ridiculous!" he scoffed.

"It takes its toll, Lock, you know it does. I have to focus all my energies when serious threats arise, as they have done persistently this past month. I dislike it as much as you."

"Hmph!"

"But it's calmed down a bit now, hasn't it?” John intervened, dragging the conversation back on track before it veered off into another disagreement about what constituted appropriate use of time, which for Sherlock was anything not involving him. “Isn't it time to make your move, Myc?"

"I... I don't really have a move to make," said Mycroft, sitting on the client chair, looking a bit disappointed with himself.

John moved behind him and rubbed at his shoulders reassuringly. "Not from what I've seen..."

Sherlock huffed with showy impatience, and sat cross-legged at Mycroft’s feet, glaring up at him like a malevolent cat that hadn't been fed for at least an hour.

"He's being all shy and weird, John. Tell him it's stupid. And Greg's being all respectful, like a big idiot, when he should have just grabbed him and fucked him silly by now!"

Mycroft ignored this unhelpful contribution. "You don't feel odd about it, John? What with...?" 

John shrugged. "Hope that's not why you're holding back. No odder than this, is it? All cool as far as I'm concerned. Me and Greg have talked. You and Lock have obviously thought a lot about it, haven't you? Pair of pervs. And if our little arrangement here is flexible, shouldn't yours be?"

"It would help distract me from Lock if I were to have a paramour of my own, you think?" asked Mycroft, teasingly.

John tutted. "Don't be a dickhead."

Sherlock slapped his brother's calf rather more viciously than necessary.

"There's no distracting from me. How dare you suggest it!"

Mycroft kicked his pest of a brother off to the side, ignoring his growl of protest.

"I'd have to tell him about this. About me and Lock, and you... Everything, at some point. I have turned it over in my head repeatedly, and I simply can't work out how or when to do so. It is a very different prospect in reality than it is in fantasy... I can't very well say it before things...go somewhere. But it feels like leading him up the garden path if I initiate further contact and then spring it on him later. I would feel a complete cad. And could he really handle it? I’m by no means sure.”

John plonked himself on the sofa to speak face-to-face, and Sherlock lay out on the floor, propping himself up on his elbows between them.

"Right, I'm going to tell you something you need to know about Greg Lestrade,” said John, firmly. “He is a kinky fucker. I mean, it might be a shock to the system to hear that the Holmes brothers bonk each other like it's going out of fashion… It's still a bit of a shock for me! But I'd bet on him not freaking out. And he's not a grass. Anyway, I'd be there to help explain...”

He paused at the looks on their faces.

“What? Why are you looking guilty, Mycie? And why are you looking so bloody smug, you? What have you done?!"

Sherlock laughed with infuriating condescension. "Obviously he's a kinky fucker, John! We had deduced that much!"

"And by deduced you mean...?"

"Broke into his house and went through his porn collection,” declared Sherlock in triumph. “It's huge, and disgusting! He doesn't use internet porn at all, it's like being trapped in the 90s! All jazz mags and DVDs - we found actual VHS tapes! It's like some kind of obscene vintage charity shop over there. Didn’t he even show you?!"

John was aghast. "For fuck's sake, you two! What have we said about breaking and entering?!"

Sherlock shrugged. "Not to do it too often."

"Not to do it at all if it's not case-related! And definitely not to leave me out of it!"

John was outraged.

Mycroft winced a little. "Sorry, John, dear. It was actually some time ago. We've, erm, been constructing a profile over the years.”

“Can’t help yourselves, can you? What else did you work out from your covert ops?”

“Well... He used to frequent the back rooms of the odd Soho gay bar, in the immediate aftermath of his divorce,” said Mycroft, as though describing a government target. “No real relationships to speak of, since he came out. A few casual flings, a bit of anonymous sex which seems to have made him feel rather depressed for a while. He seems to have gone on a lot of dates with frankly unsuitable men who didn’t deserve him. Definitely a romantic at heart. Which is why I…approve of him.”

Sherlock sat back up with enthusiasm now. “Used to play on the BDSM scene before he got his promotion. Lost enthusiasm because he never met anyone he had a connection with, and he thought it might be a risk to his career. He used to tie people up, and he’s massively into spanky-spanky!” he giggled, cheekily.

John snorted at Mycroft’s look of sheer mortification. “I could’ve told you that much, mate.”

Sherlock gasped. “John!”

It was John’s turn to be smug now.

“Why does nobody think to ask me anything? Here’s Greg Lestrade for you: he’s dominant as hell, he fucks like he means it, he’s got a libido like an eighteen-year-old Premier League footballer, and he’s a very big boy. And yeah, he’s into all that other stuff. Not that we did much of it, but he definitely liked having a go while he was…Basically, if you bend over in front of Lestrade, expect him to smack your arse and fuck you so you can't walk in a straight line after.”

Mycroft made a tiny whimpering noise in the back of this throat and John shot him a look of ‘oh, yeah?’ He hadn’t seen the man’s obvious submissive streak in its full glory - yet - but he could imagine it suiting Greg down to the ground.

Sherlock’s mouth had dropped open at the very thought of Greg, and John… He knew they’d done it, had masturbated to imaginary images of it. But he hadn't dared ask for too many details during this early phase of their relationship. To hear it described, and to think of the very real possibility of Mycie and Greg all… His face was burning, and his trousers were suddenly very tight.

Mycroft coughed and tried to gather his wits as all their deductions about Gregory were confirmed so vividly.   

“Yes. Well, then. He is open-minded, we know that much. On paper it would certainly seem unlikely for him to be completely horrified by our secret, but one never knows. It's a big step."

"So don't take a big step,” said John, kindly. “Take a little one. Get in touch, take it from there. See what happens, and report back."

“That’s what I’ve been saying all along! Why does nobody listen to me?!”

"Are you giving me a mission, Captain Watson?" said Mycroft, arching a flirtatious eyebrow, and very much not listening to Lock's whinging.

John pulled his shoulders smartly back. "I am, Holmes. Chin up. Best foot forward," he commanded.

"Ha, now you've done it, John. Giving Mycie soldiery orders. Instant hard-on."

Sherlock's observational powers were undiminished by his minor sulk.

"Oh, yeah. Help you with that, Private?" John was delighted to have discovered Mycie's military kink, and suspected it could be very easily exploited.

Mycroft nodded weakly as John moved towards him with a predatory glint in his eye, and swiftly disappeared behind him. Sherlock watched, eyes dark with hunger, as John positioned himself behind Mycroft's chair, and leaned down towards him.

“Get it out for us…,” John whispered into the shell of the man’s bright pink ear. Mycroft hastened to release his cock from his trousers and underwear, pushing them to mid-thigh. His long prick hit his lower abdomen with a little slap.

“Come here, you,” said John, beckoning to Lock with wicked intent. Sherlock smirked and crawled on all fours in front of his brother. He ducked his head towards his straining erection, but was stopped by John’s hand in his hair.

“Nah. You just kneel there, you snarky little pain. I’m going to give your brother a hand. You can watch, but no touching.” John tugged on his lover's curls to punctuate his point.

Sherlock nodded helplessly, knowing he was being denied because of his earlier Mycroft-taunting. It only turned him on more.

Mycroft gasped and groaned as John took hold of his prick, and squeezed it firmly in his warm, square palm. He gripped the sides of the chair, and let John masturbate him with steady strokes, while he gazed at Lock's lust-darkened face. Lock seemed mesmerised, eyes ablaze, biting his pretty lips as he watched their lover work his magic on his brother's swollen cock.

“Tell me if it’s…,” said John, seeking direction. He was not yet familiar enough with the man’s body to be perfectly sure of his technique, but he was a fast and eager learner.

“A bit…harder. Towards the tip…”, husked Mycroft, looking down in amazement at John's fist twisting round his shaft.

John kissed at his neck, and winked down at Sherlock with a dirty smile. Sherlock returned the sentiment as his brother's delicious moans met their ears.

Mycroft’s heart thumped as John gave him a thorough handjob. The ridge of his crown was teased with a skillful thumb, drawing a broken little whine from him; he felt dizzy when John hummed in his ear, and rubbed up and down at a faster pace using his whole hand. The pressure was just right - even and firm - and Mycroft panted helplessly as John moved faster, and just a bit faster still, until he was teetering on the brink. Urgent desire throbbed up from his gut, shuddered up his prick and out through his slit.

“Oh!” 

He cried out and came with little jerks of the hips; his whole body buckled at the overwhelming rush of pleasure. The instant Mycroft spurted out his orgasm, Sherlock bent forwards and took it in the face, covering himself in his brother’s hot ejaculate, eyes closed in bliss.

Mycroft shuddered and panted for breath until John gently released him, and Sherlock stood with a gleeful smirk on his sticky face to let John kiss his dripping cheekbones.

Mycroft looked up to see them both grinning at him. John let out an appreciative sigh, and ran his hand through the elder Holmes’s hair with affection. Lock chuckled low in his chest, and crouched to kiss his brother, letting him taste his own semen from his lips.

“OK." said Mycroft, exhaling shakily. "I’ll make it right with Gregory.”

This little triad arrangement seemed pretty secure, after all, with plenty of room for developments. It was safe to make the next move. Seduction, with any luck. Then revelation. He was resolved.

As Sherlock licked the remaining come from his own lips, he made a few resolutions of his own. Mycroft could not be trusted to manage another date properly. He might get cold feet again, and then nothing would ever progress. No. They needed a shove towards the desired outcome he'd been promised. A square, they'd said. Not a triangle. They simply needed an intervention at this point. And Sherlock Holmes loved intervening. He was brilliant at it. 


	5. Dinner and an intervention

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Greg have their date and get much closer. Lock makes his intervention.

So here it was. What Mycroft was choosing to think of as ‘first date, take two’.

He had called Gregory two days ago, and before he could even say “hello,” had been met with, “Oh, there you are, thought you’d been taken hostage by a hostile government. You owe me dinner, sunshine. How’s Friday?”

Mycroft had smiled at the man’s excellent reading of the situation, and appreciated the way he’d been spared having to make stumbling excuses. He simply adored Lestrade’s no-nonsense, easygoing ways, in contrast to his own need to over-explain and over-strategise. Gregory had the tact not to pass any comment which might have caused him to feel embarrassed, and he was grateful for that too. By tacit agreement, they would simply pick up where they left off.

He realised he actually felt far more at ease now than he had at the beginning of their acquaintance. Having John’s blessing as well as Lock’s was no small part of that. After their initial attempt at dating had gone a little off-track, he felt he’d exorcised the worst of his nerves, along with any doubts about their compatibility.  

There was something about Gregory Lestrade which beckoned to him, and which would not go away. Much like his inevitable erection would not go away until it was dealt with, every time he thought about the man; about his dirty laugh, and soulful eyes, his dazzling smile, and his confident, non-toxic brand of masculinity.

At 7pm, his government car pulled up outside Gregory’s house, and he stepped out, resplendent in a very fine charcoal suit, a maroon waistcoat with high-Victorian black paisley embroidery, an emerald green tie. He’d spent hours primping and preening in the bathroom mirror. Both John and Sherlock had insisted on coming to Hampstead while he got ready, to ‘give helpful advice’, but mostly to have sex in his shower, which John bet was the largest in the country. They also came to tease him infuriatingly as he prepared for his date, and had persuaded him not to slick his hair right back, but to let his cowslick fall into its natural wave before pomading it.

“Curls are more fuckable,” said Lock, with conviction.

He had to admit that he felt rather fuckable, especially when Gregory emerged from the house, took one look at him, and beamed a broad smile.

Greg strolled down the driveway, wolf-whistling appreciatively.

“You scrub up well, don’t you?” he said, looking Mycroft over with approval.

_The curly bit. Oh, bloody hell, that curly bit at the front!_

There was a little hint of possessiveness in his gaze which made Mycroft’s heart jump under his waistcoat.

“As do you, my dear,” he replied with gallantry.

Greg was dressed in his best black suit - though he couldn’t recall the last time he’d worn it other than for funerals. He’d brightened it up with a light blue shirt, and a darker blue tie. His silvery hair was combed into a neat side parting with something of the 1950s about it, with a rakish little quiff dropping over his brow. He smelled delectably spicy, with an orangey undertone that Mycroft thoroughly approved of.  

Greg leaned in and pecked his date on the cheek - a casual greeting that spoke of easy intimacy. Mycroft pecked him back, hugely relieved to find there would be no residual awkwardness at all tonight.

He held the car door open, and Greg winked at him as he got inside.

“My neighbours’ll think I’ve joined the mafia, turning up here in this car, and me getting into it dressed like this.”

Mycroft chuckled.

“I can’t promise I won’t make a habit of it. Tell me their names and I’ll have them moved to another continent,” he said, drily.

Greg looked at him with perturbation.

“That was a joke, Gregory,” he explained, patiently.

Greg tutted.

“Never know with you. No exiling my neighbours. Well, you can exile Number Nine’s cats. There’s bloody loads of them, she’ll never miss them. Can’t stop them crapping in my garden. Oh, sorry, love. Can’t take me anywhere, can you?”

Greg smirked inwardly at the frown of disapproval he so loved bringing to Mycroft’s brow with a bit of well-placed uncouthness. He enjoyed knowing he was probably the only person who could rattle this man a bit - other than his brother, of course. He loved getting past the veneer of pomposity to see the man beneath, and he felt he was doing him a favour by exposing him to a bit of bad language and a few cringeworthy jokes.

The car sped north and dropped them at the chosen location - a very swish, exclusive West End restaurant, virtually blank from the outside, where only people of a certain clearance code were permitted to be members. Most weren’t even allowed guests, but Mycroft Holmes was one of very few exceptions to that rule. Mycroft Holmes was the exception to most rules. He had only been here for diplomatic dinners, and found it rather bland, decoratively-speaking. But it was private, highly secure, and the staff would bend over backwards to give him anything he wanted. He suddenly hoped it wouldn’t be too intimidating, an unmarked restaurant with a suit and tie dress code, but Gregory was taking it all in his stride.

The door was opened for them, and they entered via stairs to a large but cosy dining room on the upper level. The maître d’ ushered them to a very secluded candlelit table, screened off, but still benefitting from the warm atmosphere and low hum of conversation in the main chamber.

They sat facing each other, smiling and half-perusing the menus.

“Well, if you’re trying to impress me, it’s working,” said Greg.

“I admit it. And I am glad. But I wasn’t…,” Mycroft broke off as a thought occurred. He felt the need to clarify something he’d only just realised may have been a sticking point.

“I wasn’t disappointed or disapproving in any way of our first dinner together. I sincerely hope you don’t think I come here all the time. I very much enjoyed dining at your house, Gregory. I would always prefer that to this sort of thing. I just felt perhaps you’d like… Is it too dreadfully snobby for you?”

Greg regarded him with fond despair.

“That’s nice of you to explain. I know. Stop worrying. It _is_ too bloody snobby for me, and that’s why I’m enjoying it.”

Mycroft chuckled with relief.

“Good. Please have anything you like. No being polite. A hundred lobsters are yours, simply say the word.”

Greg laughed, enjoying himself immensely now.

“Not sure even I could manage a hundred. But I might have one.”

“Excellent. I shall join you. Let us deplete the ocean of crustaceans between us.”

Greg winked, and when the head waiter came over they ordered martinis to kick-start the evening, primarily so Greg could amuse himself by asking for his 'dirty'. Mycroft ordered a bottle of white wine he refused to divulge the price of, which Greg was determined to wheedle out of him eventually.

Conversation flowed easily, as though no time had passed. Mycroft relaxed completely as he listened to his handsome companion telling him about the 'top ten most embarrassing moments of my career' - the number one of which involved raiding a high class brothel and being propositioned by the madam in front of his giggling subordinates. Mycroft could not go into his most embarrassing moments, because they all involved Lock and nearly getting caught in various stages of the sexual act. Instead, he regaled him with the scandalous doings of various degenerate MPs he’d had moved on over the years, all anonymised, of course. Greg particularly enjoyed the one about the Tory junior minister who had turned up so drunk to a select committee hearing that he'd tried to make love to a hatstand.

They had starters of pâté with delicate salads and fresh French bread, then buttery lobster with all the trimmings; everything excessively elegant and sumptuous. Each course was followed by a palate-cleansing sorbet – peach, and then mint. They rounded it all off with the cheese plate in favour of dessert. Neither man wanted to completely creak at the seams, each mindful of the fact that he wanted to be able to move later.

“That,” said Greg, when had polished off the remaining Brie, “was a cracking dinner.”

Mycroft chuckled, feeling more relaxed than he had in ages, replete with fine fare, magnificent wine, and even better company. He positively glowed in candlelight, his auburn hair and pale skin burnished by the mellow light. Greg regarded him with a soft-eyed, rather dreamy expression.

He leaned back in his seat, forcing casualness.

“Thank you for this. I thought it would all be poncey little scraps, you know, all blobs and foam, like you see on telly. Well, like I see on telly. But that was actually food!”

“I only frequent places that serve actual food, Gregory,” said Mycroft. “I don’t believe in half-measures.”

Greg arched his eyebrow with self-conscious campness.

“Ooh, I bet you don’t.”

They laughed together rather giddily.

“Do you want anything else, my dear? Let’s have a brandy. Cognac. Really very good vintages here,” said Mycroft, nodding with a very slight hint of drunkenness.

Greg realised he could get very used to being called ‘my dear’ like that. It was a quirk of vocabulary peculiar to this extraordinary man, and to characters in Ealing Studio films. It was lovely.

“Yep, go on then, twist me arm. I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

They ordered, drank, and admired each other from across the table.

“Not so jittery now, are you? Is that cos you’re on familiar turf here?” asked Greg, cheekily. “And I’m not in bandages or juggling pots and pans?”

“I would say it was the booze,” replied Mycroft, sighing. “But actually, it’s because I have never had a nicer evening in my life.” He frowned in mild consternation suddenly. “Apart from with Lock. But you can’t take him to restaurants, because he causes scenes. Not that I’m drawing a comparison…”

He clamped his mouth shut, cursing himself for this premature little slip.

Greg tilted his head.

“Lock, do you call him? Aw. Just get better and better, you. Think highly of your brother, don’t you?” he asked, probing for details. Mycroft seemed to regret blurting this little bit of fraternal approval in the middle of what had sounded like a very nice compliment.

“I… I do, Gregory. I believe I have told you all is not quite as it seems. In truth, we get on famously.”

“You love him,” said Greg, simply.

Mycroft nodded carefully but without hesitation.

Greg made a small, pleased-sounding noise. “Good. I’ve got a brother, and a sister. Twins. Eight years younger than me. Frankie’s in the RAF. That’s the girl, by the way. Francesca. In case you were going to make sexist assumptions. Joe’s on the rigs. Always a bit of a joke, really, their shortened names. People sometimes think Joe’s the girl when I mention him, cos it could easily be Jo, Joanna, Josephine. We did actually call him that for a while, rotten sods that we were.”

“Ah. Yes.” Mycroft was rather ashamed to realise he had done very little research into Gregory’s own family, and hadn’t even asked about them. He’d been so wrapped up in his own affairs of late, and so keen to discover intimate personal details about the man himself that he’d neglected this vital element. He ought to have known better. Family was often how you got to know who someone really was.

“Do you see them often?” he asked, trying to make up for his appalling oversight.

Greg smiled a little wistfully. “Not as much as I’d like. Work keeps them away. We’re close though. Been through a lot together. Dad died when I was thirteen. He was an electrician. Lung complications from asbestos exposure, before it was properly regulated. He was getting on a bit by the time the twins came along.”

“I’m sorry.”

Greg waved his hand, keen not to make the man uncomfortable. “It’s all right. We did OK. I helped bring them up. Mum was a champion though. Proper Londoner, no bloody nonsense, grafting all her life, and a right laugh after a couple of sherries.”

“Your mother...?” enquired Mycroft, gently, hoping it was not too sensitive or upsetting a topic.

Greg smiled with affection. “Still with us, live and kicking. But in a home now. A decent one. She’s got all her marbles though, and she’ll still clout you one if you swear in front of her. 82 she is. A bit frail, but all there. We go and see her as often as we can, but work sometimes makes it harder. But we speak to her on the phone, and she’ll always know if something’s wrong, just by the tone of your voice.”

“She sounds a wonderful woman,” said Mycroft, warmly. “And she has a wonderful eldest son.”

Greg looked at him with sincere gratitude, even as he breezed past the compliment. “She is, Mycie. What about your lot? Your folks are still around, aren’t they?”

“Mummy, and step-father. She is also a force to be reckoned with. But he is a very nondescript fellow. Our father died young too. Suicide. Manic depressive. Untreated. Neither Lock nor I have inherited that, though we are devilish moody and prone to melancholia, as you may imagine.”

Greg nodded empathetically. “Tough gig. Something we’ve all got in common. Me, you, Sherlock, and John. Absent fathers, for one reason or another.”

“But mothers with backbones of steel,” said Mycroft, sincerely.

Greg raised his glass. “Hear hear. Should always look after your own. I’m glad you and, er, Lock, do. Though you could have fooled me.”

“Well… I rather think we have, as it happens. You, and the outside world in general. Our little routine of conflict. We have it down to a fine art, I’m afraid. I believe I have hinted as much.”

Greg folded his arms on the table and slipped into interrogating copper mode.

“Been having us all on, all the time? Why would you do that?”

Mycroft flushed and looked down at his hands, wondering how far to go at this juncture.

“To protect ourselves. Because of our work, primarily. It helps wrong-foot our enemies if they believe they can divide and conquer. This is all in the strictest confidence, of course.”

Greg nodded. This news wasn’t entirely surprising, given what he'd been able to piece together so far. Though he had a vague instinct that something else was being held back. But in his tipsy haze, and distracted by cool grey eyes and a curly forelock, he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He mimed locking his lips.

“I’m a vault, me. I’d never betray you. Either of you. Can tell me anything. You’ve already vetted me anyway.”

“Ah, yes indeed. I know how you feel about Lock. You were the first man I ever trusted to watch over baby brother, Gregory. The second being John, of course, and look how that’s worked out.”

Greg beamed with pride, but then looked at him curiously, trying to read the subtext. Something about the way he’d said ‘how you feel about Lock’ and how he’d pronounced ‘baby brother’. Not ‘my’ baby brother, not a slightly odd descriptor. But as though it were a proper noun. An endearment with a hidden meaning in it. Soft and reverent.

“Yeah. John does more than just _watch_ over him now,” Greg leered, then winced. “Sorry, that was crass.”

Mycroft chuckled, amused at seeing Gregory mortified for once, and wondering how best to capitalise upon it in order to forge a little new conversational territory.

“That was most uncalled for. But you’re quite right. They are, what’s the colloquialism? Fucking like rabbits,” he said, with throwaway carelessness. He downed his remaining brandy as Greg snorted a very loud laugh and clamped his hand over his mouth.

Mycroft looked at him with theatrical incredulity.

“Something amiss? I would have thought you could cope with a bit of obscenity. I believe at one time, you and John Watson were also fucking like rabbits.”

Greg froze, then shifted uncomfortably, hoping his chances weren’t blown and wondering how to explain himself.

“It’s not an issue, I assure you,” said Mycroft, magnanimously.

“I… Well, yeah. Sorry, love. Just a shock. Should’ve known that little ratbag couldn’t keep his gob shut. Does Sherlock know?!”

“Yes, Gregory. He knows. And yet you remain un-murdered. All is well.”

Greg frowned doubtfully at this little revelation. 

“Come, come, Inspector,” Mycroft said, putting him in mind of a Bond villain. “I’m only teasing you. Very naughty of me. It isn’t a problem, I assure you. Nothing is a problem for me.”

Mycroft turned his best arch smirk upon the man, and was delighted to see Greg shiver a little. Just a hint of Iceman. Just a tiny hint.

But Greg was not going to be thrown off his stride, Iceman or no ruddy Iceman. He leaned in on one elbow, pointing his finger and looking round to check they weren’t being overlooked.

“You behave yourself, Mycie Holmes,” he said, in a low, dark voice. “Don’t come the high and mighty with me.”

Mycroft licked his lips and raised a knowing brow, oozing flirtation. “Or what, Gregory Lestrade?”

Greg grinned with feral suavity. _Oh, yes._

“Like that, is it?” he said, with deceptive, dangerous calm.

“I think it might be, yes,” admitted Mycroft, feeling a shiver down his spine.

Greg necked his remaining drink, then blew out the candle in the centre of the table.

“Get your coat, love,” he said, as smoke swirled around Mycroft’s head. “You’ve pulled.”

They left hastily, without paying the bill. It all went on account anyway. While Greg was in the bathroom, Mycroft collected their coats and texted for his car.

When he checked his phone, he had 57 missed calls, 42 voicemails, and 68 text messages from the usual suspect. The general gist of which was: _DO IT TONIGHT, OR YOU'RE NO BROTHER OF MINE!_ and _FOR GOD'S SAKE, JUST DO IT! SOOO BORING!_

He didn’t bother replying, because it only encouraged further fraternal trolling.

“Back to mine for a nightcap,” said Greg, as he emerged, hurriedly making for the stairs.

“Yes,” replied Mycroft, instantly.

Before they knew it, they were in the car and racing through the night once again.

After a few minutes, Greg reached out and gently placed his hand on Mycroft’s knee. Mycroft looked at it as though wondering how it had got there, and Greg began to stroke up his long, slim thigh.

Mycroft’s breathing became rather heavier, and his mouth fell open slightly as he focused in on the sensation of Gregory’s hand sliding along his leg. It sent a tingle through him, and seemed to leave a trail of warmth in its wake.

He turned to Greg with a look of absolute longing; his eyes dazzled with it, and his pupils were vast, like black pools.

“Gregory…” he whispered, without knowing how that sentence ended.

Greg said nothing, just smiled wolfishly and continued stroking, round his inner thigh now, along the seam of his trousers.

Mycroft’s eyes fluttered closed as he ached and ached. His trousers were obscenely tented, and he was already leaking into his underwear, stimulated beyond belief at a simple thing like having his leg touched. But he’d wanted this man’s touch for so long. He’d whispered it to Lock, and they’d imagined it so often. Now it was happening, it was better than he believed possible. Gregory was touching him.

The questing hand snaked further up, and, finally, brushed firmly over Mycroft’s clothed erection. He gasped at the jolt of pleasure it sent racing through him, and then, suddenly, Gregory was breathing in his ear, hot and damp. When he took his earlobe between his teeth and nibbled it, licking round it, then moving down to his neck, Mycroft almost believed he might come from that alone, right there in the back of the car. He was panting raggedly, shivering and tingling from the maddening stimulation at his groin, heightened by the closeness of Gregory and the low noises he was making. He sounded so completely turned on.

Greg was breathing heavily against his jugular now, mouthing at his jaw. Then sense kicked into Mycroft’s fuzzy, lust-filled brain, and he turned his head until their mouths met in a deep, passionate kiss.

He moaned into Greg’s open mouth, and Greg moaned with him, tongues slip-sliding together. Greg brought a hand up to Mycroft’s flushed cheek and stroked him as they kissed. Both of them twisted awkwardly in the seat belts, but somehow they grappled with each other until they were each holding onto the other’s head, snogging desperately, rumpling each other’s hair between their fingers. Mycroft regretted the loss of the hand on his thigh and over his prick, but it didn’t matter, because now there was this.

It was so much better than the hesitant kisses they’d parted with the last time they met for a date. Those had been shy, slightly awkward first-kiss type of kisses; meaningful, but reticent. This was sex. An obvious act of sex, a precursor for the sex they were hurtling towards, and had been hurtling towards since the moment Mycroft had turned up in Lambeth, looking like a man in love.

Greg was pulling at his collar now, dragging him towards him, as though he wanted to rip his clothing off in one go.

Mycroft was simply out of his mind with need. So hard, so alive with sensation he almost wanted to jump out of his skin. He craved touch. More touch. He pulled Greg’s shirt out of his waistband as they continued to kiss, and ran his hand up it, touching Greg’s bare skin for the first time, noting the firm wall of muscle, and the wiry dusting of hair over his chest.

Greg groaned, completely ecstatic to find himself being so enthusiastically wanted by this brilliant man, who had stammered his way through their first few meetings, and was now so fluently undoing him.

“Yeah,” he said, breathily, for no purpose other than brainless erotic encouragement. “Yeah, yeah...”

And then the car stopped with a little jerk. They fell away from each other, panting, with reddened mouths, half-laughing as they caught themselves mid-madness. Mycroft knew for an absolute certainty the driver had hit the brakes a little harder to let them know they’d arrived, to save the humiliation of their not noticing and potentially making the man sit there in a rocking vehicle until they finished what they started. 

Mycroft cleared his throat, blushing completely red, with a stunned, dazed look on his face. Greg chuckled darkly, and they set their clothes to rights, just enough to be respectable. Apart from their very obvious erections.

They breezed from the car, as though nothing had happened - though not as convincingly as they imagined, given the giggling and the snorting as Greg rummaged for his keys.

Once inside, Greg didn’t even bother putting the lights on. Though if he had, he might have noticed a few things out of place, here and there.

Instead, he just stepped in towards Mycroft, more controlled now, but with no less intent. He pressed his body to him, and they groaned as their cocks rubbed together though their trousers. Gregory was indeed a big boy, just as John had said.

They leaned in for another mind-boggling kiss, and stripped each other’s jackets off as they did so. Greg pulled back, taking Mycroft’s face between his hands. He stared at him with his expressive, chocolatey eyes, black in the darkness.

“I want you so fucking much,” he said, with no hint of teasing or amusement.

Mycroft’s mouth fell open to speak, but he had momentarily lost power over it.

“Want to fuck you,” husked Gregory once more, “ _so_ much.”

Mycroft nodded automatically, to indicate he understood.

Greg’s face broke into a thrilling smile, his teeth showing white in the gloom of the hallway.

“Will you let me, Mycie? _Please.”_

“Oh, God, yes,” breathed Mycroft, as the words sank in. He threw himself forward, holding the man round his neck, then running his hands across his broad back. “Oh, please. Want you. Want you to fuck me. Gregory. Please.”

Greg nodded, and led his lover by the hand up the stairs, guiding him in the dark towards his bedroom. He turned the small bedside light on, and they blinked as they adjusted to it. Mycroft gawped at Gregory, with his hair spiked up, and his shirt half undone, fly bulging.

Greg grinned crookedly and beckoned to him, delighted when he obeyed.

“I want to undress you,” he said, quietly. “Is that OK?”

Mycroft hesitated briefly. It was one thing to unclothe each other in the heat of the moment, but another to be conscientiously stripped and perused.

“I… Yes,” he said, biting down his insecurity.

Greg caught it.

“It’s all right. I just think you’re bloody smashing, and I want to take me time getting to grips with you. So I was thinking we’d lose the waistcoat…”

He quickly unbuttoned it.

“And the tie…”

He undid it and let it fall.

“And the shirt an’ all.”

He fiddled with the cufflinks and buttons until the thing slid from Mycroft’s pale shoulders. Mycroft lowered his eyes momentarily, and Greg caught his chin in his hand and leaned in for another kiss.

“Beautiful, Mycie. All smooth and, God, so…”

Greg lost his words, and ran his hands over Mycroft’s torso, gripping him with steady hands. The light blond-red hairs adorning his chest, and the delicious softness of his skin made Greg harder still. Mycroft was adorable. Simply adorable, with flesh atop muscle, and sweet little freckles scattered here and there. He wanted to lick him up and down.

“Now you do me,” Greg instructed. “Fed up of this suit.”

Mycroft swallowed hard, and quickly divested Greg of his shirt and tie, until they stood together, bare from the waist up. Mycroft’s mouth practically watered at Greg’s musculature; thick upper arms, and broad, defined chest. He loved instantly that the man was not absurdly sculpted or overdone. He adored the hint of a tummy which made him ever-so-slightly cuddly.

“Probably best if you lose these,” chuckled Greg, unbuckling Mycroft’s belt, before sending his trousers down to his ankles. Mycroft stepped out of them, and Greg stripped his own off until they were standing in their pants.

“I love your body,” said Mycroft, because it was the first thing that came into his head and out of his mouth. He flinched at the inarticulate awkwardness of the phrasing. Greg chuckled.

“Thank you. I love yours. Come here,” he moved them to the bed. Mycroft lay on his back, and Greg lay half-over him, kissing down his chest, nibbling and sucking his flesh, making him thrill with excitement and anticipation. One of his nipples was caught between teeth and he cried out at the zinging sensation of it.

He thought briefly of Lock, and how he enjoyed his nipples being bitten and tweaked, sometimes viciously. He had no especial kink for it, for himself, but it always enhanced his pleasure. His capacious brain mulled over the fascination of Gregory, and how different he was to Lock; and then he considered how wondrous a thing it was that he drew no comparison between physical desire for Gregory and Lock, or indeed, John. It was simply different. Different men, different bodies, different feelings, though all equally sincere and meaningful to him.   

Greg was mouthing at the waistband of his pants now, and he moaned, letting his arms fall out to the sides in complete surrender. Greg moved to kiss at his still-clothed prick, tonging at the wet spot, tasting him through the fabric. He snuffled around, laving and teasing at it, and then hooked his fingers into the elastic and pulled. Mycroft raised his hips to let Gregory take his underwear down, and let himself be seen naked for the first time by this man he wanted so very much.

He looked down the length of his body, searching for clues about whether he was good enough. Greg’s eyes told him the truthful answer. It was yes. Yes. Yes.

“You’re fucking gorgeous,” said Greg, earnestly, kissing at his prick. Mycroft’s legs spread automatically, and Greg held onto his thighs as he explored him with his tongue, moving down his balls, and lower still to the ridge of his perineum. He gasped with outrageous pleasure.

Before he could get too carried away, Greg moved back up the kiss and pet him, holding his hot, heavy penis in his hand, squeezing, and making him groan at the infuriating, just-out-reach satisfaction of it.

“I… Please, let me see you…,” begged Mycroft, turned to pull at Greg’s underwear, until he was bare. His prick bobbed up, large, and wide, and dark with desire. The swollen head glinted with moisture, and Mycroft wanted it.

He quickly moved and turned the tables, kissing and licking and sucking on Greg’s upper body, running his cheek across his chest, enjoying the bristly sensation of hair. He worked his way down, searching for his prize. With his eyes half-closed he sensed his way, until he rested between the man’s thick thighs, and nuzzled into his groin to inhale his musky, manly scent.

“Oh, fucking hell, love…,” groaned Greg, as Mycroft lapped at his balls, then gripped his shaft and licked a hot, wet stripe up his length. Greg threw a hand over his eyes, and placed the other on top of Mycroft’s sweaty hair, as his lover pleasured him with his tongue.

Mycroft was delirious with sensation, sucking loudly and filthily on the bulbous tip of his lover’s cock, worshipping him. Greg was leaking copiously, and he felt Mycroft’s mouth stretch wide around his head and push down, engulfing him in tight heat. Greg moaned to the ceiling as he was lovingly sucked. His face twisted into a rictus of need, and he felt himself nearing the edge.

“Woah, stop, stop…”

Mycroft pulled up, a look of concern on his pink face.

“No, it’s good,” laughed Greg, wondering how anyone could doubt it. “Too bloody good. Keep that up and you’ll be seriously disappointed.”

“Never,” said Mycroft, seriously.

Greg smiled and sighed as he controlled himself.

“Come up here. Relax. Look, I want to do this properly,” he said, between kisses. He reached down to hold Mycroft’s hardness in his hand again, making him whimper. “Want to fuck you properly. Sorry for asking, love, but you’ve done it before…?”

Mycroft chuckled between shaky breaths. “"Oh dear, I must be giving a very bad impression."

Greg smoothed his lover’s brow with his thumb. "Nope, a very good one."

“Yes, Gregory. I have done it before, but it’s not very often I, erm, receive it. But I want to, with you. I’ve only ever had sex with one man in my life.”

Mycroft contemplated the white lie of omitting John from the calculation for now, but decided it was for the best. They had not technically had sex, though they had been sexual with each other.

Greg pulled back to look him in the eye. “Just one, yeah? Wow. Old-fashioned type?” he said, with levity.

Mycroft snorted and giggled. “You could say that. Practically medieval.”

“We’ll go gently. Take it easy, OK?”

“Mm-hm.” 

“Aw, doll. You’re fucking lovely, and you have no idea, do you?”

“Well, I have _some_ idea,” quipped Mycroft, gripping Greg’s hard-on again, and making his eyes roll back in his head as he stroked it.

They fondled each other and worked themselves back up into a state, cuddling up, rubbing their cocks together until both men felt the other’s wetness on him.

"Let me just get a...,” murmured Greg, then made his move towards the bedside table, and rummaged in the draw, fishing out lube and a condom.

"There's no need.”

Greg’s face fell.

"No, I mean... I'm up to date with tests and such. I’d like you to, erm, feel you as you are."

Greg frowned.

"I believe you. But you don't know the same goes for me. Using protection until proven otherwise, them’s the rules."

Mycroft bit his lip, because he did know. "I... Since you and John, you had tests... And you haven’t…since then. I believe."

"Oh, haven't I? Well, no, I haven't. You shouldn't bloody know that."

Greg glared at him playfully and pounced until he was straddling his legs, ready to resume his seduction.

A slight rustling sound emanated from the ceiling at that moment, so slight as to be completely ignorable.

They kissed and frotted together until Greg was satisfied that they were both mutually desperate enough – not that they hadn’t been all night. He took the lube and squeezed some onto his fingers, while Mycroft looked up at him, all at once fiercely ravenous, eager, tentative and nervous.

“Gonna go really slowly,” crooned Greg, bringing one of Mycroft’s legs across, rolling him slightly over onto his side. Mycroft took the hint and drew his knee up, allowing for better access. Greg kissed him again, and lay behind him, petting at him as he brought one slick finger between his lover’s pert buttocks and searched for his opening.

He gently brushed his finger down his crack, spreading lube around liberally, before pushing in so that his fingertip sat just at the entrance to his lover’s body. Mycroft twisted his head back round for a kiss, to distract him from the embarrassment of this first moment. Greg pressed a fraction further, up to his first knuckle, and very slightly wiggled, which made Mycroft breathe a little faster and push back slightly. A good sign.

Mycroft was a bit tense, heart pounding through his chest, but he was trying to relax - because if he couldn’t relax, this couldn’t happen, and that would be so disappointing, and humiliating, and… _No._ He took charge of his flying brain, told it to mind its own business, and let his body do the hard work tonight.

He breathed until the slight intrusion felt more natural, and then he pushed back further onto Greg’s finger, until he could full it fully inside him. His cock throbbed in response.

Greg hummed with satisfaction.

“Mm. There…,” he mumbled into Mycroft’s ear, making him blush fiercely even as he felt inordinately pleased.

Greg shifted position, and as he did so, pushed Mycroft’s knee higher to reveal the breathtaking sight of his thick finger disappearing into his lover’s beautifully pink, tight hole, framed deliciously by his high, pale cheeks - spread and ready for more. Greg pressed his middle finger in to meet his forefinger, and Mycroft inhaled a little sharply. Not due to pain, but to the newness of it. Or perhaps the anticipation of discomfort which never came. He exhaled steadily, allowing himself to be penetrated wider and deeper.

Greg fumbled for the lube with his free hand and added more, making things as wet and soft as he could.

“Oh, Mycie,” he rumbled, unable to help himself, “oh, good boy.”

At these words, Mycroft groaned deeply and jerked his hips back, taking Greg’s fingers deeper.

Greg smirked. Well, there was a surprise.

“Liked me saying that. My good boy, aren’t you, Mycie?”

“Yes!” panted Mycroft.

“Yes, he is. Oh, fuck me, you’re such a good boy. Like having my fingers inside you, don’t you?”

“Mm-hm! Feel you… _deep_.”

“And what if I do this… See if I can… Oh, there.”

Mycroft wailed as his prostate was teased. His prick twitched and jolted automatically as he was pleasured deep inside his body. He made a continuous groaning sound which delighted Greg, who pressed at him mercilessly, taking the opportunity of his lover’s intense reaction to scissor him open some more. When he added a third finger - amazed by the way the pliant little hole stretched for him - he was more than ready to move on.

“Going to pull out very slow, OK, love? You just lie there, all open for me.”

Mycroft nodded and went completely boneless, existing solely in the moment now, relaxed and waiting.

Greg manoeuvred himself behind Mycroft, so they were spooning on their sides, with Mycroft’s upper body twisted towards him and Greg leaning into him. The position was easier going for the first time; intimate, but allowing someone as well-endowed as Greg a better angle and a more pleasant ride for both. Greg added more lube to his hard-on and guided it into position, pressing in by tiny degrees, letting Mycroft adjust and open onto him.

Mycroft grunted in his throat and pushed back, bearing down to let himself take the invasion, though it verged on painful at first. Whenever Lock did this, it was easy and well-practiced, but a new lover took some getting used to, and he found himself concentrating far more on his body’s responses.

He shifted his hips to find the most comfortable angle, breathing deeply as the burn became a far more pleasurable stretch. Greg slowed completely, shushing and stroking him, until Mycroft nodded. And then it seemed like the most natural thing in the world. His arse flowered open and Greg slid in past the first ring of muscle, then the second, easing in with care until his hips pressed up against Mycroft's backside.

“God, you’re a kitten, aren’t you?” Greg moaned, going dizzy with the sudden clutch of tight, warm flesh. “Not the big bloody British Government at all. All shivery for me. Fuck, love. You’re so _ready_.”

“Oh, please, Gregory…” begged Mycroft, arching his back to take more. He felt completely speared, forced wide and full.

Greg leaned in, pushed Mycroft’s knee even further away to spread him as he slowly thrust in and out, warming up.

“Say that again,” he growled.

“Please, please!”

“Please what, Mycie Holmes? Say it. Tell me what you need.”

“Need you…Gregory, please.”

_Submissive as hell. Lucky, lucky me._

“Say it. You have to say it, or you don’t get it,” taunted Greg, chuckling wickedly as he seized power.

“Fuck me. Please, Gregory. Fuck my arse, do it hard! I want it. Have some mercy!”

Greg laughed in glee. “Jesus… Oh, you bloody wonder.”

He thrust up and forwards firmly, pinning Mycroft down with his bodyweight, loving the way his damp face was pressed into the mattress.

They found a rhythm, slow and satisfying, then faster and more frantic as they chased their desire together.

Mycroft was beyond verbal communication now, making incoherent grunts and whines as Greg pistoned into him with increasingly erratic movements.

Suddenly Greg slipped out and momentarily lost traction, and he shifted position to bring Mycroft to his knees. Mycroft bent forwards, pressing his spine down to present himself, all self-consciousness utterly dissolved by the incredible head-rush of being the object of Gregory’s animal lust.  

Greg gripped his lover’s hips so he could control the pace and trajectory better, and he sank back into the slackened hole, watching as it blossomed for him. He resumed thrusting, and searched until he found what he was looking for.

“Oh!” Mycroft exclaimed as stars shot across his vision, and a wave of supreme need thrummed through his core. His balls drew up and his cock dripped onto the bed as Greg hit the pleasure spot inside him over and over again.

The repetitive banging of the headboard against the wall punctuated their movements, though in his peripheral hearing, Greg thought he could hear a slight bumping from above them. 

Greg experimented with a hunch, and rubbed at Mycroft’s wobbling backside as he pummelled into him.

 “Naughty boy, aren’t you…,” he husked, between harsh panting exhalations, "Look at you..."

Mycroft’s head dropped helplessly forward, his curly forelock hanging down in front of his eyes. He emitted a low groan and nodded frantically. Greg grinned behind him.

“Ooh, yeah, gonna have to do somethin’ about that…”

He raised his hand and let it fall with moderate force onto the man’s creamy bottom cheek.

“Mmf!”

Greg felt his lover’s smooth channel clench as he spanked him. So he did it again, and Mycroft’s head jerked up at the impact. He cried out in obvious pleasure with every smack, loving the sound that ricocheted around the bedroom. Greg pressed down on his lower back with one hand, and placed one foot up on the bed to give him more leverage, fucking in an obscene almost-crouching position.

Mycroft pushed his bottom back in silent demand for more, and Greg gave it to him, spanking him on the same side every time he pulled back. His hand left behind a beautiful pink smudge on the luminous skin.

As the noise of their coupling ratched up in volume – moist, slapping flesh, sharp little spanks, and low, bestial grunts – another noise began to blend into the chorus. A rustling noise from the ceiling, partially drowned out but perceptible. Mice in the loft, thought Greg, at the back of his mind.

Greg felt his climax coming on, and reached round to pull at his lover’s cock.

“Close, Gregory...,” warned Mycroft, not knowing whether he wanted to finish or never wanted it to end.

“Yeah, me too. Oh, Mycie… Gonna come, gonna come!”

So close, he was so bloody close, he was going to shoot his load up Mycroft Holmes, and fuck an orgasm out of him, and…

“Ooh!” cried Mycroft, in a climbing tenor voice.

“Uh!” grunted Greg in response.

“Oh shit!” came a panicky baritone from above. And then, before Greg or Mycroft could comprehend what was happening, there was a loud crash, a hail of plaster and falling woodwork at the foot of the bed, and the sound of something bursting through the ceiling.

Greg’s heart jumped up to his throat and his brain jangled with confusion. He briefly wondered whether there’d been an earthquake or a meteorite. Mycroft jolted and twisted round in shock, and they fell forwards, shielding themselves in case the sky was falling in. Adrenaline shot through their blood – the unpleasant, terrifying kind, rather than the sexy kind. Greg’s hard-on receded as his body switched into fight and defend mode. He rolled off the bed, and his jaw dropped at the sight of a long, lanky leg hanging from his bedroom ceiling. Mycroft rolled off to the other side, aghast, clutching his pounding chest.

Greg’s first thought was he’d been burgled and the bloke had tried to make a break for it. But that was not Mycroft’s first thought. Mycroft’s first thought was, of course, Little Brother.

“Erm… A little help, please, Lestrade?!” said an indignant, appallingly familiar voice.

Greg shook his head, because he couldn’t actually believe what he was hearing or looking at anymore. He was sure moments ago he’d been in the middle of an absolutely epic buggering, and now he was the victim of a Holmesian home invasion.

He looked over at Mycroft, with a stunned, baffled expression, vaguely pointing at the ceiling as if to say ‘are you seeing this too, or am I hallucinating?’

Mycroft’s face was incandescent with fury, which was an odd look on a naked man with a rapidly descending erection.

“Sherlock William Holmes!” he shouted up to the hole in the plaster.

The leg waggled back and forth, as though waving hello.

“What?! Someone push my leg back up, I stepped on the bit you’re not supposed to step on! It hurts!”

“Oh, that’s nothing, believe me, you absolute, complete…,” began Mycroft, uncharacteristically struggling for adequate vocabulary.

“Jesus Christ,” said Greg, incredulously, seeing that action was necessary. He quickly stepped onto the very end of the bed, and leaned forward to brace Sherlock’s clothed leg. Sherlock’s big flapping foot with its hard-soled shoe stepped painfully onto his shoulder as he pushed upwards, and disappeared back into the loft.

They heard more clattering and thumping as the interloper made his way across to the ceiling hatch in the hallway outside.

Greg grabbed his dressing gown, and Mycroft suddenly remembered he was still nude, and gathered up the duvet to prevent himself feeling like a complete prat. They went out into the hallway and saw the hatch open.

Sherlock’s grinning face emerged.

“Good evening,” he said, casually brazening it out.

“You are simply going to suffer for this until the day I expire, Sherlock,” said Mycroft, through gritted teeth. “And you’re lucky I haven’t already – why are you so intent upon inducing a coronary event?! Come down at once so I can cause you an extreme amount of agony!”

Greg frowned at him, bemusement giving way to anger now.

“What the fuck are you doing, you massive bellend?!” he yelled.

Sherlock grimaced slightly.

“Hmm. If I come down and explain, will you restrain my brother from laying hands upon me?”

Greg huffed disbelievingly.

“I’m promising nothing, mate. Get your arse out of my loft!”

Sherlock pouted, but realised he was going to have to face the music eventually.

He huffed and pushed the sliding ladder down, then carefully descended. He could feel his brother itching to assault his exposed backside, and was relieved that Greg was there to act as a kind of shield. Though he wasn’t 100% confident it would save him for long.

He dropped the last couple of feet and landed on bent knees, springing up again with a little stylish flourish. He absolutely refused to be sheepish.

Mycroft stepped towards him, still clutching the duvet to him with one hand.

The phrase ’uh-oh’ crossed Sherlock’s mind just before his ear was clamped in a vice-like grip.

“Ow! Let go, you beast!” he complained, as Mycroft dragged him into the bedroom, mustering his dignity as far as possible. Greg followed, scratching his head.

“What the hell’s going on?” said Greg, despairingly. Life was not supposed to be like this, he was sure of it.

“It’s an intervention!” said Sherlock, defiantly, trying to twist away from his brother, which was futile and only made him feel like his ear was going to wrench off completely.

“It’s an interference! An imposition! An invasion!” shouted Mycroft.

“Ow! Let go, you’re embarrassing yourself in front of Greg.”

“You’re embarrassing me in front of Greg, you horror!”

“Woah, hang on, wait. What intervention? Why were you hiding in my loft?! When did you… How… What…?!”

Greg lost track of the questions he wanted answered.

The Holmes brothers ignored him, and seemed to be engaged in a silent battle of wits, each glaring into the other’s eyes.

Greg tried again.

“So you’re not happy with me and your brother being together, right? Tough titty, mate, it’s none of your business! You can’t just break in and interrupt in the middle of…!”

But something wasn’t quite right about that analysis.

“What did you think you’d achieve by hiding up there anyway? Unless you were… Were you _watching_?”

He looked up at the ceiling, scanning for clues, and found a very small drill hole directly above the bed, a few feet from the much larger crater which had opened up in it. A spy hole, in fact.

Sherlock cocked his head and stared meaningfully at Mycroft.

Mycroft sighed and let go of his brother’s ear. Sherlock rubbed at it, scowling. He brushed some of the plaster and wood off the bed before sitting down in a huff.

Mycroft sat too and dropped his head into his hands, shaking his head.

“He was watching, Gregory. Yes,” he said, glaring sidelong at his infuriatingly innocent-looking brother.

Greg frowned at the distinct feeling he was missing something.

“That’s a bit…pervy, isn’t it?” said Greg, tentatively.

Mycroft laughed a little hysterically.

“Yes. Yes, it is. That is the _mot juste_. Perverted and libidinous, is what it is.”

“Yep,” said Sherlock, proudly. “Just wanted to check you were doing right by my brother, Lestrade. And I’m satisfied with your performance, so I’ll be going now, thank you. I’ll let Mycroft explain the rest.”

He stood and was shoved back down by a scowling D.I.

“Right, seriously, what’s going on? This is just weird now.”

Mycroft groaned reluctantly.

Sherlock folded his arms and tossed his head.

“I can’t believe neither of you have asked whether I’m all right! I slipped off the beam and onto that flimsy plaster. You should have that reinforced, Greg, it’s dangerous. I could have fallen through the whole ceiling!”

“I’ll give you dangerous, you lunatic,” said Greg, menacingly.

Lock smirked and batted his eyelashes. “Will you? Promise?”

Greg looked askance at him. Sherlock was…flirting? Blatantly in front of Mycroft, who merely tutted and seemed entirely unshocked.

“You awful boy,” scolded Mycroft, “I told you I was going to do it, but you couldn’t wait, could you? Always so impatient! That was not an accident, Gregory, the foot through the ceiling. That was a deliberate ploy to interrupt us at a…sensitive moment, and generally cause havoc, hoping to force a confrontation! I know you, baby boy.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Well, you’ve dithered about for so long, I just thought it was best if I was on hand to check everything was running to plan. And it was an accident - I didn’t mean to do it before you’d both come!”

“Woah, hang on, what? What plan?!” demanded Greg.

The brothers looked at each other, and Mycroft nodded in grudging agreement to something.

“We have to tell you something, Greg,” said Lock, matter-of-factly. “We are a bit pervy. But you’re a kinky fucker, John said so.”

Greg’s eyebrows hit his hairline.

Mycroft slapped his brother’s arm.

“Be quiet. Gregory. The plan… You’re not being set up, so please don’t see this as some kind of conspiracy against you. There’s no pretence at all in terms of my feelings, or anything that was happening tonight. I…like you very much. And so does Lock. And Lock and I…have discussed me becoming more involved with you.”

“In great detail,” said Lock, nodding happily.

Greg looked completely baffled now, and he felt the gears in his brain creaking to catch up.

Mycroft continued, hurriedly, just trying to get it over with.

“Lock thought I was hanging back with you, and wanted me to move things along. Which I was doing, thank you!” he said, to his impassive brother. He turned back to Gregory, and his expression softened once more. “But we need you to understand something. I suppose now is as good a time as any. Though I’d rather he’d waited five minutes before interfering…”

“Intervening,” corrected Sherlock.

Greg looked at them like they were dangerous escaped madmen. Possibly, they were.

“There’s an understatement,” he complained, gruffly. “Picked your moment, didn’t you?! We were nearly done. I mean, that’s just bloody rude!”

Orgasm denial had made him doubly irritable.

“We are brothers,” stated Mycroft, as though that explained something.

Greg drew a blank. “Er, yeah. I know that.”

“But we are more than brothers,” said Mycroft, meaningfully.

“How can you be more than…” Greg frowned deeply.

Sherlock tutted.

“We’re _together_ , Greg. In a pervy way, basically all our lives. We have sex with each other. Got it? But the important thing is, we think you’re sexy and brilliant, like we think our John’s sexy and brilliant. Mycie likes you, and you make him happy, and because of that we don’t want to lie to you anymore. So get your head around it quickly, so you can carry on boffing my brother and making him do all those lovely noises… Just get _on_ with it, and then we can sort it all out properly, with a rota or something. Four's more easily divisible than three anyway, it's just basic maths!”

_Brothers. Lovers. Perverts. Two. Three. Four._

Greg’s hearing seemed to go a bit muffled, and he realised he was going to have to sit down. A hundred little moments flashed through his head; Holmes brothers fighting, and snarking at each other, looking at each other out of the corner of their eyes. Sherlock glancing at him cheekily at crime scenes. John saying he’d been ‘welcomed to the family’, and pushing him towards Mycroft. All the suggestive little undercurrents over dinner…

The Holmes brothers checked him over with concern, and saw he was not about to keel over.

“John knows. About us,” said Sherlock, pleasantly. “You can call him and do all the talking stuff. Though he might be a bit pissed off about me being here. Shit. Didn’t think about that. He thinks I’m out ‘doing research’…”

Sherlock frowned at his lack of foresight about that one.

“You’re both together. Like… Lovers,” said Greg, confirming it to himself.

“Yes, Gregory, we are. Since always.”

“Incest,” said Greg, pronouncing the word very neutrally, feeling it had to be said out loud so he could believe it.

The Holmes brother looked at each other, a little concerned that they had read this completely wrong.

“Yes,” said Mycroft.

“Yes,” said Sherlock.

There was no way round it, and they offered no defence or apology, because it was not something they would ever defend or apologise for.

Greg nodded. “Love,” he said, distractedly. “Romance, is it?

“It’s more than that, really. One might say, we are soulmates, though that is unforgivably sentimental,” said Mycroft, softly.

Sherlock beamed at him, but Mycroft remembered he was cross and fumed unconvincingly back. He turned his attention back to Gregory, who was deep in thought.

“I’m so sorry, Gregory,” said Mycroft, a note of distress entering his voice now. “I had hoped to break it to you less dramatically. I wanted us to have a little more time… It’s just… I have an Achilles brother, you see. He is my weakness. And my greatest strength, of course. I’d do anything for him in the world. He is marvellous, and beautiful, and much of the time he is a ghastly, ill-behaved brat who won’t do as he’s told, and runs around causing bloody mayhem!”

“Mycie!” Sherlock sounded scandalised.

“Oh, no, don’t protest too much, you little exhibitionist. You were counting on me losing my rag and blurting it all out, to test Gregory’s resilience! Utterly transparent. You wanted me to haul you over my knee, knowing Gregory’s little penchant for such things, as an undeniable demonstration. Nice try, but I’m not falling for it. You can wait for your discipline, and it’ll be on my terms, not yours, brother mine! And Gregory will be allowed to think about all this on his own terms too, so stop pushing!”  

“Right,” said Greg, nodding with matter-of-fact comprehension.

He looked up at the brothers, and saw that they were now holding hands. Holding onto each other, waiting for a hammer blow. Greg regarded them, half-smiling at the odd sweetness of it.

Mycroft inhaled and exhaled shakily.

“If you can accept us, the fact of us, as John has accepted us, that would be... We have room in our hearts and lives for… Well, for you. And John. We rather intended to work something out. An arrangement. It’s your choice, Gregory. Whatever you think is best for you. Even if that means walking away. I have enjoyed your company so very much.”

His voice cracked a little in spite of his resolve to maintain his composure.

Sherlock scowled at Greg, as though daring him to reject his brother.

Greg saw and heard it all, loud and clear.

 _Walking away. Sounds like the sort of thing you’re supposed to do. Sounds like the worst thing ever. Holmeses. They’re different._  

He was different too. So he decided he’d freak out later. Much later. Possibly not at all.

Gregory Lestrade did not walk away from a challenge. Gregory Lestrade, who understood the fragility of life, was not a man to turn down a chance at happiness. Or fun.

“Right, that’s enough,” he said, clapping his hands together. “Mind if I join in this conversation, or were you going to talk at me the whole time?”

“I realise it’s a lot to take in,” blurted Mycroft. “We truly mean no disrespect or upset to you.”

“Of course not! That would be a stupid conclusion to reach,” scoffed Sherlock, contemptuously.

“You can both shut your gobs now,” said Greg, quietly.

Two refined mouths clamped shut simultaneously and they sat like penitent schoolboys awaiting wrath. Greg took it as a very good sign indeed.

“Were you wanking up there, 'Lock'? Up in my loft?” he asked, curiously.

Mycroft’s heart jolted at the question, and the use of the nickname. A flood of hope thrilled through his blood.  

Sherlock smirked insolently. “Yep. Course I was. It was a very wankworthy sight.”

Greg considered this amiably.

“Interesting. John said something to me recently… Holmeses respond to action. I trust John. And you can bet your arses I’ll be calling him later. So here’s the action I’m taking. You, Sherlock Holmes, or Lock, or whoever you are, are going to tidy up this bloody mess. And then you are going to clear away the clothes on that chair over there, and sit in it. And then I am going to tie you to it, with your hands behind your back to stop all that naughty wanking.”

They both gawped at him, and Greg realised he could get very used to that indeed.

“Erm. OK,” said Sherlock, going all compliant by instinct.

Greg caught his little shudder of pleasure at the instruction, and smirked as he felt control being handed to him like a sacred offering.

“Me and your brother are going to finish what you interrupted,” he declared.

Mycroft made a tiny noise of profound relief, his handsome face coming alight with astonishment and the onset of desire.

“Aw, Mycie,” said Greg, chucking him under the chin with his fingers. “Did you think I’d let this little sod ruin our special night? Not a chance. We'll just have to start all over again, won't we, love?”

“Gregory…”

Greg shushed him and grinned a wicked grin.

“Lock is going to get his pervy little wish, and watch me coming up your arse. Then I’m going to make you spunk your brains out. That can be the first part of his punishment, yeah? And we’ll see how we feel after that. After I’ve called John.”

_(To Be Continued...)_


	6. Intervention, part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sex, discussions, and one more crucial revelation. And lots of soppy sentiment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge apologies for delays. Life has been unkind, time has not been on my side. I thank you for your kind indulgence and hope you're still enjoying this!

Sherlock wiggled in his chair and scowled demonically. 

_Cursed torment! Vile ordeal! How dare they do this to me? Hateful bastards. Oh, I hope it never ends. Lovely, horny, wondrous sight..._

Indeed it was. Greg, eyes closed in bliss, roughly thrusting into Mycroft, who was lying on his back with one leg thrown over Greg's shoulder. Both men were moaning and murmuring little obscenities to each other to increase their pleasure, picking up where they had left off before Sherlock's fall from grace, and the ceiling. Apart from the excessive noise, they seemed utterly oblivious to the younger Holmes's presence.

It had been all well and good when Sherlock was secreted in the loft, but now he found it offensively theatrical. It was infuriating, and extremely hot.

_Fakers. As if they're not massively turned on by me watching! Could at least have the manners to look up occasionally. Ooh, Mycie sounds so happy. Need them to change position so I can see it..._

He would have liked to have interrupted with a well-placed demand, but he was currently unable to vocalise due to a little bit of Greg's earlier inspiration - shoving Mycroft's underwear into his mouth and securing it with a dull office tie. In fact, Sherlock was restricted only with items of clothing. A dressing gown belt held his hands immobile in a complicated series of knots. Quite charmingly amateur, he thought, though he had expected more heavy duty equipment. Not that it was an unskilled job by any means. Just a bit humiliatingly banal, which he supposed was the point. 

_I absolutely refuse to be punished. They think they're winning, but let's see how smug they are after I'm mindgasmed all over myself. Ha. That'll teach big brother to show off for Lestrade. Might teach Lestrade a few things about Holmes boys too. Focus..._

At that precise moment, Mycroft round at him. 

_Damn. Busted._

"No, Lock," he warned, as sternly as he could for a man being soundly buggered. 

Greg was thrown slightly off his rhythm. 

"What?" he asked, then looked up to check that Sherlock was actually OK and not passed out due to suffocation or hormonal overload. 

"Lock. Trying to...oh...come without touching," explained Mycroft, mid-rogering. Sherlock merely scowled deeper than ever at being ratted out. 

Greg looked down sceptically at his lover, and slowed his pace, easing in and out of Mycroft's slick, warm body with lubricious rolls of his hips.

Mycroft bit his lip at the heightened sensitivity inside him. "No, really," he insisted, distractedly. "He can. We both can..."

Greg grinned devilishly. "Oh, aye? Should I not bother doing this then?" He reached down to pull at Mycroft's leaking prick, and smirked at the ensuing helpless groan. 

"Please...," begged Mycroft, unable to articulate more as Greg rubbed him with a firm, steady hand.

Sherlock gathered his wits and resumed concentration. Greg clocked him with a curious expression - it looked as though he was meditating, or had simply fallen asleep in the chair. But on closer inspection, the front of his trousers were tented and he could see his chest rising and falling more heavily than usual. He wished he hadn't restrained him fully clothed, but it had seemed a bit of an affront to decency in an already very indecent situation. Out of deference to John, he'd erred on the side of minor prudery. It was one thing for Sherlock to watch them, but another to have full access to the lad before they'd agreed any boundaries at all. Not that he wasn't desperately intrigued by the possibility of seeing a bloke come just from thinking... 

"All right, I believe you. Come here, love."

Greg eased himself out and turned Mycroft over until they were both on their knees, facing the errant observer. Mycroft bent back down onto his elbows, and Greg repositioned himself behind him. 

"You, stop that," commanded Greg. Sherlock ignored him and carried on doing whatever it was that was making his cock twitch in his pants. 

"I mean it, stop that, or I'll send you out, and me and your brother will finish alone. Like we were going to anyway," he continued, masturbating to keep hard during this unwarranted one-way conversation.

Sherlock pouted as best he could around his makeshift gag, and looked at his brother, hoping for some kind of defence. 

"Don't make eyes at me, young man. Do as Gregory tells you," came the intolerably superior reply.

Greg grinned behind Mycroft's bent back and turned his attention back to the elder Holmes, where it belonged.

"You help me out here, eh?" he said, pushing Mycroft's hand to his groin. "Look at your pretty brother while I give you what you need..."

Mycroft touched himself and both Holmes brothers groaned to see each other in such a stricken state. 

Greg took full advantage of the moment and pushed back into his lover's waiting hole. 

"Oh yeah...," he grunted in a deep, sex-roughened tone as he slid home. 

Such heat and pressure, all the more stunning for being renewed after a little break. He felt himself climbing higher and gripped Mycroft's hips, rutting into him as hard as he could take.

Mycroft moaned incoherently as his body jolted forwards, keeping his eyes fixed on Lock - who was making indignant growling noises and beginning to work the knots free behind his back, like Houdini with a hard-on. 

_New challenge. Escape before Mycie comes._

Mycroft saw the intention, and nodded with a half-grin. The game was on. 

Unaware of the mini-contest being fought under his very nose, Greg chased his release, feeling Mycroft clench and push back onto him with mounting desperation. He altered the angle just slightly, and his partner's head jerked upwards as he hit the right spot.  

Mycroft's face and neck heated as his arousal peaked. Gregory was magnificent at this. Absolutely made for it.

He felt an uncontrollable juddering through his thighs. He was on the verge of coming - the first time Gregory would feel and hear him. His face twisted into an expression of extremity as his intimate core was pummelled from within. Then his lover's hand snaked back round to grip his twitching penis, and he gasped at the intense sensation until his whole body shook. His eyes squeezed shut as he came shuddering over Gregory's hand, ejaculating so hard that some of it splattered against his chest and up onto his own chin. 

Sherlock let out a muffled groan at the sight, eyes wide with appreciation and awe. 

_Ooh, Mycie wins. That looked nice. First time I've seen him come with someone else inside him. Not just someone. Greg. Should I be jealous? Nah. Yes. When do I get a go?!_

Mycroft was barely holding himself up now, and Greg hastened to his own completion. His breathing became erratic, and the repetitive motion of his hips and thighs stuttered as Mycroft's orgasm pulsated through his cock. 

"Oh, fucking yes!" he exclaimed, as he was brought to melting point inside his lover's fluttering passage. His hips locked out as he spurted deep, angling himself upwards to make the most of these last precious moments of penetration, before he fell forwards over Mycroft's back.

Their sweat-dampened bodies slid together as they recovered their breath, feeling their racing heartbeats against each other. Greg gently pulled out, reluctant to ever be let go. Mycroft whined almost inaudibly at the loss, and Greg kissed his neck, and hummed in his ear to reassure him that this was merely one of many such special moments.

He felt immensely proud at having reduced the mighty British Government to a puddle, and at having shown the Great Consulting Prat who was boss. For now. 

"Thank you, love," he whispered softly, gathering his lover into a tight embrace.

Mycroft turned and gazed at him, a little starstruck. 

"Thank you. I'm... That was..." 

Greg smiled and spared him the need for words by kissing him deeply, and rubbing their noses together. They nuzzled each other's faces affectionately as they came down from their mutually experienced high, until an irritable snarl interrupted the afterglow.

Sherlock had not yet managed to untie himself, and was looking rather cross about it - if a little dazed by what he had been willingly forced to witness. 

"Oh, untie my brother, will you, Gregory?" said Mycroft, in an affected, bored tone. 

Greg chuckled.

"Course. In a minute. Haven't finished cuddling you yet." 

Sherlock thrashed about in his chair, deciding that he would just try and break the thing apart to serve Lestrade right. 

Greg rolled his eyes, and left the interloper to struggle a bit. 

When the noise became intrusive, and it seemed there was a real danger of Sherlock achieving his aim, Greg reached for the tissues to see to the clean-up. Mycroft let himself be wiped down, but shook his head minutely when Greg moved to his backside. 

"No?" Greg asked, curiously.

Mycroft shook his head more definitely. 

"Not yet. Please. Want to keep you a bit longer."

"Filthy little sod, aren't you?" Greg was delighted at this possessiveness over his bodily fluid. That was certainly a novelty. 

"Mm. I have no wish to deny that fact," said Mycroft, with a mucky smile. He rolled on to his front and settled his head into his hands. "Oh, see to the baby, will you? He'll do himself an injury." 

Sherlock was bouncing up and down now, trying to force the chair legs to give way. 

_Bloody Greg and his bloody professional knot-tying abilities. Anyone would think he was in the bloody Navy not the police._

Greg stood, still naked, and regarded Sherlock as though watching a baffling piece of performance art. 

"Oh. Poor thing. Can't you manage?" he said, sickly sweet.

Sherlock growled dangerously, which made Greg laugh, just to add insult to injury. 

"Shall I undo his gob too, Mycie? Or do you prefer the peace and quiet?" 

"Hmm, yes, I think we can allow it," Mycroft said, through a deep yawn. "Though I dread to think of all the backchat we're about to receive," 

Greg moved behind his captive's chair and set to work.

"I can deal with backchat, doll. Been dealing with it most of my bloody career with this one."

"Try most of your existence on the planet, dear," Mycroft drawled, without looking up. 

"You love it.”

"I do. I love him," came the simple reply. 

Sherlock's face softened, even though he recognised this strategic deployment of the truth as a blatant attempt to appease his wrath - which always worked. 

When he was finally free of his bonds, he rubbed at his wrists and jaw dramatically, hoping to inspire guilt at the appalling way he'd been treated - which never worked. It was all most unfair.

"I hope you're proud of yourselves," he grumbled, testing out his voice. 

"Yes, extremely," said Mycroft, sleepily. Sherlock flopped down on the bed next to him, and placed a firm kiss to the side of his brother's sweaty head. He bit down on his earlobe, just to make a point, and let himself be pulled into a sidelong cuddle. Greg sat on the end of the bed, petting Mycroft's curling hair with fascination. He bopped the tip of Sherlock's nose with his forefinger. 

"All right, Trouble?" he asked, casually. 

Mycroft chuckled. 

"Trouble," he repeated with pleasure. 

Sherlock pretended to be severely displeased. 

"No, I am not all right! Is someone going to get me off, or what? Look at that!" he complained, and turned over to display the outline of his fully-clothed erection.

Greg gave a little wolf-whistle, which almost made Sherlock giggle, though he caught himself just in time. 

"Not so fast, matey. Got to call the Doctor, haven't I? You stay put. Be nice to each other, but no funny business." 

Greg put on his dressing gown, and retrieved the unknotted belt from the floor. 

"Yes, Gregory," said Mycroft, politely, now floating on a wave of endorphins. 

"Yes, Gregory," mimicked Sherlock, in a very childish voice, and received a double clip round the ear for his efforts.

Greg left the room, shaking his head and muttering to himself about "bloody cheeky Holmeses."

When they were alone, Mycroft turned to check on his brother. 

" _Are_ you all right, dearest?" 

Sherlock harrumphed and stuck out his lower lip.

"No. I didn't even get to see much! Just you two looking all red-faced and sweaty, with a load of squelchy noises and silly moaning. I wanted to watch it going in and out!"

Mycroft tutted. "Naughty little spies don't get what they want. But..."

Sherlock perked up. "Yes?"

"I saved something for you..."

"Ooh, yes, let me see!" Sherlock scrambled towards his brother's rear end, and Mycroft spread his legs obligingly to let him rest between them. He blushed in spite of himself as he felt Lock's cool hands parting his cheeks.

"Oh, brother. You're a sticky mess! Yummy."

Sherlock's cock twitched at the sight of his brother's well-used and reddened arsehole leaking Greg's semen, and he lay on his front to examine it more closely, unable to stop himself rubbing his face along one smooth buttock.  

"Mm. You approve, I take it?" 

"Yesyes! You're still all open... Can I...?" breathed Sherlock, desperately.

Mycroft looked over his shoulder with a doubtful expression. "I thought you'd say that. I think perhaps not... Not until we have John's consent, darling. And Greg's for that matter. Can you be patient?"

"Ooh. But I want to!" sulked Sherlock, disgusted at being constrained by etiquette. "Of course I can't be patient! Want to taste it and kiss it into your mouth..."

"You’re a dirty little demon. You'll do anything, won't you?" asked Mycroft, entirely rhetorically. 

Sherlock smacked his brother's bum playfully, causing Mycroft to yelp and glare. He giggled as he threw himself back down next to him. 

"Only for you. And John. And Greg if he asks really nicely, because he was so horrid to me! But I know you're right. No improvising just yet. Stupid goldfish rules," he grouched. 

Mycroft, as ever, took the high road.

"They're there for a reason, dear heart. Because of emotions. We must be prepared to compromise."

Sherlock pulled up with a little squeak of outrage.

"Don't be revolting! How dare you suggest it! I never shall. I shall - "

"Have everything you want, yes, I know. Calm yourself, bratling." 

Mycroft grappled him onto his back and pulled him into a closer hug, laying across his upper body which seemed to calm his highly-strung sibling. Sherlock let himself be soothed, and took his brother's hand in his, sucking each finger in turn. 

"Yes, yes, I know," he grumbled, good-naturedly. "I did enjoy watching it, though Mycie. How you looked when he put it in you... And he looked..."

"How?"

"Like you were magic. Which you are. He may be a horrid brute, but he's a sensible horrid brute at least." 

Mycroft huffed with obvious delight at this little bit of affirmation. 

Sherlock stroked his brother's face fondly and Mycroft pretended to bite at his hand.

With the sudden changeability which came so naturally to him, Sherlock’s face clouded over as a thought ran across his brain. He dropped his gaze a fraction. 

"Are you very angry with me for ruining your first night?" 

Mycroft raised his brother's chin back up to meet his eye. "Not very, darling. And you didn't ruin it. Though we will be having a very long conversation about appropriate behaviour. Possibly in the form of a lecture with an essay at the end. No, don't whinge, you know you’ve got it coming. But I'm...glad you were here." 

Sherlock nodded seriously, and bit at his lip. ‘Long conversation’ was one of those horrible euphemisms for something worse. Or better. He could never fully decide.

"Was it..."

"Lockie Holmes, are you about to ask me a silly question?" 

Sherlock shrugged with some reluctance.

"Was it better than with you?" said Mycroft, incredulously. "No. Of course not. Just different. Is it better with John than with me?"

Sherlock shook his head firmly. "No. Just different. Both good. Wonderful."

Mycroft tickled him under his chin. "Clever boy." 

"Good brother."

Sherlock patted Mycroft's head and smiled, feeling reassured and grateful that he was never mocked for rare moments of insecurity. 

"Did it hurt?" he asked, curiously, trailing his fingers along his brother's fleshy buttocks, dipping into his cleft with his fingertip.

Mycroft squirmed as he thought about it.

"A little bit at the beginning. Erm, it was quite...vigorous. Feels rather tingly still. In a good way." 

Sherlock licked his fingers naughtily. "Mm. It's all a good way." 

"It is with Gregory. And with you."

"And with John too. You haven't spent enough time with John," admonished Sherlock.

"We'll see, I suppose. If John would..." 

Sherlock jabbed his brother's side. "Don't you dare go all coy about John. We  _will_ see. I'll see. Again and again. Mycie getting fucked all hard..."

Mycroft interrupted before Sherlock worked himself up into an uncontrollable state. 

"Lock. Tissues, please."

"I'll do it," said Sherlock, sweetly. "I want to do it."

Mycroft fully relaxed as his brother cleaned him up with gentle loving strokes, then lay next to him and held him as he dozed. 

***

Downstairs, Greg was on the phone. 

"I've found something that belongs to you, Watson," he said, brightly.

John had obviously been startled from sleep. "You what? It's gone midnight!"

"Six foot, light blue eyes, curly mop, very lippy. Goes by the name Lock to his nearest and dearest, so I gather."

"Oh, shit. Is he OK? What's happened?" said John, in a panicky tone.  

Greg could hear his friend bolting out of bed, halfway into his clothes already. He felt guilty for not explaining himself properly and hastened to reassure. 

"Oh, no, he's OK, mate. Nearly fell through my bedroom ceiling, but no harm done. I, on the other hand, have nearly had a heart attack. I've got the other one here too. Quite a chat we've had," he said, meaningfully.

Silence fell at the end of the phone. Greg counted the seconds it took for John to regain the power of speech. Five.

"Right. Don't... Just wait for me," said John, slipping into Action Man mode. "I'm coming over."

"Course you are," said Greg, pleasantly. "I'll stick the kettle on."

Half an hour later, John arrived in a cab.

Greg's expression was unreadable as the man stepped into the hallway. He'd decided to let the ex-Army doctor sweat a bit. 

"All right, mate?" he said, neutrally, as though John turning up here in the early hours of the morning was a regular occurrence. Which it almost could have been, back in the days before Holmeses decided to stick their long noses in, amongst other body parts.

"Yeah. Had to wake Mrs H to leave Rosie with her. She was bloody livid, but I said it was a Sherlock emergency so she didn’t smack me in the mouth. So… What have they told you?" asked John, tentatively, half-wondering if he was going to get a smack in the mouth after all. 

Greg smiled nonchalantly.

"Only that they've been shagging each other for years, and you've known about it for months."

John seemed wary. "How have you taken it?"

Greg tilted his head and idly stroked at his chin. "Hmm. How have I taken it? Pretty bloody well, I'd say."

John nodded casually, as though they were discussing the latest Spurs transfer. "Cool." 

"Oh no, Watson, you're not playing it all sophisticated with me," scolded Greg. "Ought to be ashamed of yourself." 

John grinned. "Yep."

He stepped back and took in the familiar sight of a well-fucked Greg, obviously naked under his dressing gown, though he noted that the man seemed just a tiny bit anxious. 

"It's all right, you know," he said, kindly. "Those two. Us. I mean, it's not all right as far as anyone else is concerned, but who gives a shit about that?"

Greg tutted and shoved him in playful reproach.

"Bloody hell. Morals in the gutter, the lot of you. Come on. Let's have it all out and then we'll see what's what. They're in there."

They entered the living room to find two unbearably smug-looking men lounging on the sofa like debauched harem boys, albeit not exactly dressed for the part. One was in a very snazzy suit, the other in his Sneaking About, Up To No Good, tight-fitting, all-black ensemble.

John pointed an accusing finger at the reprobate who had eluded him this evening. 

"Oi. You. Sneaky git! Research, is it?"

Sherlock sat up with all the grace and dignity he could muster, which was quite a considerable amount.

"Of a kind, John," he drawled. "I needed to establish whether my brother was going to fulfil his promises, and it seems he has. With a little push in the right direction."

"With a huge clodhopper through my ceiling!" protested Greg.

"He'll pay for the damage, Gregory," chimed in Mycroft, looking sternly at his posturing brother.

"Yes, yes. I'll pay for the damage," he replied, dismissively. "Consider me chastened and ashamed. Now just drop it."

"Not nearly chastened enough for my liking," Greg muttered, darkly.

"No indeed. And monetary recompense is not the only amends you'll be making, baby brother."

Sherlock's cheeks coloured at the menacing tone and the use of his nickname in front of two men he was trying rather hard to dazzle with lofty magnetism. He waved an imperious hand.

"I haven't the faintest idea what you mean."

Mycroft fixed him with a glare which John could not quite discern the implicit meaning of, but which Greg reckoned he could.

"Lockie," Mycroft said ominously.

Sherlock tossed his head. "No. Absolutely not."

John sat in the nearest armchair, unable to cope with any more nonsense. 

"Are we going to have a sensible discussion or what? How was the big date, before the sky fell in? Sure it wasn’t just the earth moving for you?" 

"It was lovely, thanks Johnnyboy," replied Greg, with a chuckle. He took a seat on the sofa arm. "It was cracking. We've only recently finished it."

He and Mycroft exchanged the amusingly bashful little glances of the recently debauched. Sherlock mimed a vomit.

John grinned and shook his head indulgently, but his face fell a little at the next comment.

"They tied me up and let me watch, John!"

"Oh."

Mycroft sat forward.

"We're very sorry, John, dear. It wasn't quite like that. But we didn't think to ask whether it would be all right by you first. Heat of the moment. And Gregory was rather insistent."

John raised an eyebrow at the man. "Oh, I bet he was."

"Hope you're not too pissed off with us," said Greg, sheepishly. "Nothing happened with Lock. He wasn’t even naked. And it was only because... erm, to teach him a lesson about...something or other. Got no excuse really. Sorry, mate. Bit selfish."

"John's jealous," declared Sherlock, fascinated by this response, and thrilled about this little display of territoriality over him. Once again, he noted, the breadth of human sentiment - not least his own - never ceased to amaze him.

John shot him an indignant look.

"Not jealous. Or pissed off exactly, it's just...." He searched for words and fell short. "What exactly's happening?" he asked, almost pleadingly. It was gone one in the morning. A bloke couldn't be expected to know what was going on after one in the morning, especially not when he'd been roused from his bed in a panic; and especially not when it involved at least one Holmes brother, let alone two, and a sort-of ex.

Greg leaned over and clapped him on the arm supportively.

"Well, I think I just agreed to join the family. I definitely agreed to... What is it we're doing, Mycie, love? Dating? Courting?"

"Anything you like," said Mycroft, with roguish charm.

Sherlock giggled. 

"Ha. Flirting."

Mycroft elbowed him in the ribs and was slapped away by flappy hands. 

John appreciated the update on the Greg-Mycroft situation, but realised he had a potentially unwelcome contribution to make.

"That's good, you two. But, er, you need to know... Me and Mycie, Mycroft... Well, Lock watched you. He watches us. And joins in. Mostly with little brother. But…,” he shrugged, a little guiltily.

Greg looked slightly taken aback, but supposed he ought to have seen that one coming. He looked across to Mycroft, who confirmed it with an awkward nod, obviously hoping this would not be a red line. Sherlock flopped against him with a heavy sigh, disguising his need to comfort his brother as general impatience.

"OK. Jesus," said Greg, mulling things over. "How far has it gone exactly?" He wasn't sure if there was a 'bad' answer to that question, but he did need to know. 

"Me and him?" asked John, resolving to be as frank and upfront as possible, as he'd known he'd have to be. "Bit of kissing. He does stuff with Lock, and I get off on it. Sometimes I...help him out. Hands only. Hasn't gone much further than that."

Greg heard the implied 'yet' at the end of that sentence. 

"I can't apologise for the fact of it, Gregory," said Mycroft, softly. "Because John is…special to Lock, and thus to me. But I am sorry if it's upsetting to you."

"It's... A tiny bit of a jolt, let's say. But, well, me and John have gone further than that," said Greg, finding that the idea didn't exactly displease him. 

Sherlock snorted derisively. 

"John's got no business being jealous - he's had all of us in bed, one way or another! Ooh, you're a terrible slut, John Hamish Watson," he chided, shaking his head in disbelief. "I haven't even gotten _near_ Greg yet!"

"Do you want to, then?" asked Greg, a bit too quickly.

John folded his arms and looked at him with a cross between amusement and irritation.

Sherlock ignored him.

"Obviously. Don't you? Don't look at them for permission, just answer!" he demanded.

Greg stood up, not quite knowing where to put himself. "It's not that bloody simple, is it?!"

"Isn't it?" wondered John aloud.

Mycroft coughed politely. "It would please me, Gregory, if you're concerned about my thoughts on the matter. You taking on Sherlock - God help you - it would be...exciting. But we haven't ever discussed such a possibility with John."

"No, you bloody haven't! Do I get a say or what?" 

Sherlock rolled his eyes at his flatmate and partner.

"Oh, don't be dramatic, Watson. Of course you get a say. Answer me this: did you have a good time, with Lestrade? When you two were going at it hammer and tongs behind our backs?"

John squirmed. 

"Yeah. Not denying that, am I?"

Sherlock stood and began pacing around as though summing up evidence. All three men exchanged disbelieving, though tolerant, looks.

"Right. So what's the difference if we both have a good time with him? No-one's suggesting any change of loyalty. Merely an expansion. A merger, if you will. On equal terms, let the dynamics fall where they may. We're all on the same team: mine."

John decided to be a bit difficult, just for the kicks. 

"Huh. So you're pimping us both out now? Greg might have something to say about that."

"Oh, what, do you think I'm gonna turn you down, mate?" said Greg, with consternation. "Not bloody likely. Not a problem for you, Mycie, is it?"

Mycroft sat back, steepling his hands under his chin, a picture of calm.

"Far from it, my dear. You and John together. You and Lock. Any combination thereof. Perfection."

"So you're an evil sex mastermind now, are you?" chuckled Greg, kicking at his leg. Mycroft dodged and cast a heated look at his newest lover.

"No, _I'm_ an evil sex mastermind! It wasn't even his idea!" stormed Sherlock, annoyed at having his Summing Up thunder stolen. 

Mycroft was outraged. "I think you'll find it _was_ my ruddy idea!"

"Whatever," huffed Sherlock, throwing himself onto the sofa, plonking his feet up on his brother's lap with incredible petulance.

"And don't look at me like that, John. You and Greg would be all over each other if it weren't for my little takeover bid. So why not carry on where you left off? It's  _really_ horny to think about. We don't want to stop either of you. It was stupid of you to stop in the first place!"

"I stopped for you, dickhead!" exclaimed John, raising his voice.

"Did I ask you to?" argued Sherlock. "No. You just went with the most boring socially constructed, knee-jerk reaction available to you. So unimaginative."

Mycroft tapped his brother's thigh. "Don't be rude, Lock."

"You stopped because of what you feared I might think, and because you got caught in the trap of thinking you had to choose - which is a  _you_ problem, not a  _me_ problem." He appealed to his brother for help. "Mycie, why don't they understand about sex and love and everything?" 

Mycroft stroked his brother's large feet. "They understand perfectly, darling, they simply haven't had access to a social environment which allowed for expansion of thought upon the subject, as reality rather than fantasy. They show no signs of being unwilling to rethink their conditioning, which is exactly why we've chosen them."

Greg turned to John, hands on his hips. "Is it just me feeling like a lab rat at the moment?"

"Get used to that."

"I think I could get used to it, actually."

John smirked up at him, with a little unspoken 'oh, yeah?'

"I'd be up for, y'know, us," said Greg. "It was good, you and me. But how would you feel about me and Sherlock starting something...? That’s a bit, erm, unexpected." 

John sighed and ran his hands through his hair.

"I'll let you know when my erection goes down."

The Holmes brothers took note and gave each other victorious Cheshire Cat grins. 

_We win._

"I don't want to get in the way," said Greg, seriously.

Sherlock snorted with contempt.

"You couldn't if you tried, Lestrade. Don't look at me like that - I mean, yes, I am objectively fantastic and uneclipsable - but I meant because we are all unique. Or hadn't you noticed? You couldn't get in the way of me and John, because what we have is special. And I couldn't get in the way of you and John, because of your specialness. You still have soppy feelings for each other, even though me and John are in love. That's just evidence-based fact. It doesn't detract from anything. Likewise, I couldn't get in the way of you and Mycroft, though I would like to get in the middle... Don't you get it?!"

"Yes, stop bloody lecturing! I do get it actually, smartarse. I have some experience with unconventional set-ups. Not personally, but people I used to hang around with... Which you obviously already know about from sussing me out over the years."

Mycroft placed his hand over Sherlock's mouth to prevent more impertinence, and nodded at Greg to continue. 

He turned to John again. 

"What do you reckon, mate? Fancy another go? Fancy letting me show your boyfriend a good time an' all?" 

Greg gave him a pearly-white, twinkly-eyed smile, and John caved in completely. 

"For God's sake, yes, all right? It would be...kind of immense. And yeah, I'm not blind, I had noticed you both have a bit of tension, shall we say? I can handle it. Reckon you'd enjoy yourselves. Bloody oversexed, libidinous swine, the pair of you. And Lestrade being less of a grumpy arse, and Lock being a whiny sod on someone else's time occasionally - that's all a bonus for Captain John H. Watson, frankly. Why not?" he said to the room at large.

Sherlock almost held his breath. "Can you handle it, really, John? Because..."

John stood and went over to his lover. He crouched down by the sofa, held him by the upper arms and looked at him closely. "You love me, yeah?" 

"Yep. Easy one." Sherlock nodded.

"And you don't want to hurt me." 

A shake of the head, curls bouncing. "Never."

"Good," said John. "So don't. Keep talking to me, don't bullshit me about anything, and don't you dare stop bloody loving me. I can share you, like you share Myc."

"Yep. I'm sharing you too, John. Because I'll never stop loving you. I want you to have fun, and everything else I can possibly give you - even these two idiots. I'm good at sharing," said Sherlock, proudly, making John's heart clench. He planted a solid kiss on those bow-lips, and felt a hundred times lighter.

Mycroft gave a sarcastic snort.

"What?! I am good at sharing!" protested Sherlock, annoyed at having aspersions cast on his generosity of spirit.

"This is the only time in your entire life you've been willing to share anything, and that's only because you know it means you get triple helpings for yourself."

"No, it's because I'm so very nice!"

Greg smacked Mycroft's arm. "Mycie, don't be rotten. Lad's doing good here."

"I know. It would be hypocritical of me to chide. But it’s a big brother's prerogative to tease," said Mycroft, rubbing his arm thoughtfully.

"Well, don't tease him too much or he might change his mind."

Mycroft spluttered in disbelief. "Ha, fat chance!"

"So...?" giggled John. "Are we in, like, a full time gangbang now or what? Do we have to do a spreadsheet? I'm not volunteering."

"How are we to proceed?" mused Mycroft, to himself. 

Greg shrugged. "I dunno. Take it as it comes, I guess." 

"No, no. These things require thought, Gregory. Time must be allocated to allow for new bonds to form..."

Sherlock whined.

"Oh, for God's sake! Look, just agree that we're all involved, and it doesn't really matter in what combinations. We'll just work it out as we go along! And yes, Mycroft, there'll be lots of time for you to spend with your Gregory, now you've fallen so hopelessly in love with him and everything."

Silence fell after this little rant.

Greg cleared his throat.

"Fallen in love with me? Mycroft?"

Mycroft was red-faced. Sherlock winced. 

_Shit. Was supposed to let him say that._

"Well," said Mycroft, looking at his feet. "Little Brother is hardly ever wrong."

"I'm  _never_ wrong!" corrected Sherlock, but shut his mouth at his brother's fierce glare.

"Is...is that all right?" stammered Mycroft. "There's no requirement for you to express similar sentiment. I believe you feel some affection for me, but I don't expect you to be prepared to give your heart away... I should like you to, one day think about..."

"Oi, sod off you," said Greg, hitching his thumb at Sherlock to get him off the sofa.

Sherlock moved, slinking over to John a bit guiltily. He plonked himself on his flatmate's lap and draped over him, watching as Greg sat next to his brother and pulled him into an embrace. 

"Stop being daft," said Greg, to a flustered elder Holmes. "Affection, yeah, no kidding. I do feel affection for you. More than. You're right up my street. Can't see that changing any time soon. Falling for you, Mycie. Not letting you get away. Are you with me?" said Greg, softly, knowing he was more than half-gone in love already. He just wanted it to be completely right when he said it for the first time, and he wanted a little longer to get to know the man. He wanted it to be perfect.

Mycroft looked at him wonderingly, knowing precisely what he meant, loving the man all the more for his care and unwillingness to take such things lightly.

"Oh. Yes. With you, Gregory." 

"Ha, blushing. Stupid." 

"Shut up!" hissed John, clamping his hand over Sherlock's mouth as Greg and Mycroft kissed passionately. 

Sherlock wiggled. 

"Stop," whispered John. His lover went completely still, and John pulled him into a languorous kiss. They sighed happily together.

"Was it nice, then,” said John, indulgently, “Watching Greg bugger your brother stupid?"

Sherlock nodded emphatically. "Uh-huh. You  _have_ to watch next time. It's brilliant. But Mycie’s never stupid. Just quite silly sometimes."

"So are you. And yeah, think I will bloody watch next time. Lots of times."

John pressed his forehead to Sherlock's. "You silly dickhead."

"Mm. You massive wanker," said Sherlock, smiling beatifically.

When the pairs broke away from kissing, they were all rather flushed, and all obviously hard. 

John smirked and made the first move - he shoved Sherlock off his lap towards Greg, and was pleasantly surprised to see how coquettish he went at Greg's come-hither look. All the detective's habitual cockiness melted away as Greg grabbed the front of his top and pulled him down to straddle his lap. 

"Evening, Lestrade," Lock said, with customary cheek.

Greg pounced.

Sherlock groaned as Greg's hands roamed around his back, and he pressed himself further into the man, delighting in his strength and confidence, and the fact he smelled and tasted slightly of Mycroft. 

Mycroft was watching them kiss hungrily, until John beckoned to him. He rose rather shakily and knelt in front of the armchair. John took his face between his hands and pulled him into a deep kiss too, licking around his mouth and stroking his hair. 

"Mm. All a bit too sexy, innit?" he growled into Mycroft's ear. The elder Holmes laughed in agreement and ran his hands up and down John's thighs, grateful for his approval and his support.

“Swapsies,” interrupted Sherlock's husky baritone

Mycroft did not need to turn round to know his brother was grinning lecherously. 

He released John, and span round on his knees. Sherlock had rolled off to the side and was pushing a chuckling Greg up with his stocking-feet. Mycroft caught Greg's hands and pulled him the rest of the way towards John, who stood, and made a grab for him.

The two men the Holmes brothers wanted most in the world fell together into a firm hold, and snogged, grinding against each other, feeling a combination of elation and relief at being back in each other's arms – guiltlessly this time, and for more than just their mutual pleasure.

Mycroft crept back over to Sherlock, who giggled with glee as his brother threw himself on top of him, and pinned his wrists above his head, lying full length.

"You have been a very, very bad boy tonight," said Mycroft, with a wicked glint in his eye. Sherlock shook his head, still snorting with laughter at his own genius, and also with giddy relief at this latest turn of events.

"Haven't. Where would you all be without my interventions? Floundering around like morons, that's where,” he said, defiantly.

He already knew he was onto a loser, but it was always worth a try to fend off the inevitable with a bit of well-placed lip.

"Rude, and insulting, and presumptuous, and showing off appallingly," continued Mycroft, as though his pesky brother hadn't spoken. 

"Mycie...," whined Sherlock, humping at his leg, trying to distract from this hideous recounting of all his misdemeanours.

Mycroft simply held him down more firmly. "And manipulative, and unacceptably meddlesome. Oh, and you lied to John too. Lying is worst of all, isn't it?"

"It wasn't a lie, it was misdirection!" contradicted Sherlock, wondering if he might not be in a bit of bother now.

"Naughty," said Mycroft, kissing his brother's nose. "Boy."

Sherlock grimaced, refusing the as yet unspoken command. "No, Mycroft. I won't!" 

"Yes. You knew this was going to happen eventually. You have engineered it for exactly that purpose!" insisted Mycroft, knowing he was correct.

"Not here. Shut up," said Sherlock through clenched teeth, mindful of the volume of this conversation in the presence of others he would much rather kept out of it. Mycroft had already let slip a bit too much in front of Greg on this particular subject, and he hoped it would be forgotten now all was reconciled. He squashed down the part of his brain that knew everything his brother said was true, and decided to opt for a bit of denial.

Greg and John had ceased snogging each other's faces off and were exchanging baffled looks. 

"What are you two on about?" said John. 

"Hmm. I might be able to guess," said Greg, looking down at an appalled Sherlock with grim certainty.

"No, you might not!"

"Thinking back... Mycroft said something about your discipline earlier... My ears pricked up at that..." mused Greg, tauntingly.

"He didn’t say anything of the kind!"

"I did actually."

"Mycie, no!" wailed Sherlock in dismay. "I don't consent." 

"To what? Someone make sense!" appealed John. Just when he was getting into his stride, some bastard always pulled the rug out from under him. It was infuriating.

"It's now or never, Lock," continued Mycroft. "We said we'd have to eventually. We knew it would arise, didn't we?" 

Mycroft sat up, keeping his brother’s lanky legs trapped beneath him to prevent any undignified escape attempts.

"Gentlemen, we have told you much. But we haven't told you all," he said, in his best British Government voice.

John sat back down, running a hand over his face. "Oh, Christ, what now?!"

"I think it might be best just to demonstrate."

"No!" yelled Sherlock, as his brother tried to turn him over. He attempted to kick, but found himself pinned.

It was something of an impasse. Neither Holmes could make a move without forcing the other to an equal and opposite reaction.

"Come along," scolded Mycroft. "It's either this or we have to think of another ruddy plan to break it to them later. I simply refuse to do anymore planning of our private lives - it's so time-consuming!"

"But... So embarrassing!" whinged Sherlock, turning his face away into the sofa cushion.

"Yes. But you asked for it, baby boy! And you know you’ll be miserable if I don’t do it."

"Can’t believe you’re actually going to do it now," chuckled Greg, taking a seat next to John on the armrest once again. This night was shaping up to be even more entertaining than he bargained for.

"What?!" shouted John in utter despair.

Mycroft smiled amiably. "Nothing to worry about John. When Lock misbehaves - as he has done all day today - he is punished."

John's mouth opened and closed. "Punished? How? You're not serious?!”

Mycroft raised an icy eyebrow as Sherlock thrashed beneath him, trying to get free.

"Deadly. It has fallen to me to be his disciplinarian ever since he was a ghastly brat in short trousers. Now he is a ghastly brat in long trousers, the arrangement is no different. You tell them what happens when you misbehave, Lock."

"Shan't," said Sherlock's muffled, sulky voice.

"Then by all means let me show them." 

Mycroft stood and hauled Sherlock up by his arm. 

"No, Mycie, please! It's just awful!"

"He goes over my knee to have his bottom smacked. Don't you, darling?"

Sherlock cringed and stamped his foot in impotent fury, though he was unsure who he was furious with. 

"Bloody what?!" cried John, unable to credit what he was hearing now.

"Mycroft!" moaned Sherlock, red to the tips of his ears. He relaxed his body until it became deadweight, and Mycroft had no choice but to let him sink back down and hide his face in his folded arms.

"It is the only thing that renders him sorry and humble, and he needs it. I would not do it otherwise. It is not sexual. When it's for disciplinary purposes. Though he does still enjoy it for pleasure, as I believe you already know, John... Context is all, isn’t it?"

John blushed, flashing back to the times during sex when Sherlock had begged to be spanked.

"Erm.. Yeah. Just a bit, for a giggle. But not like you mean it. Isn't it, like, GBH or something?"

"Yes!" shouted Sherlock, seeing a chance for rescue. "Save me from the nasty man, John."

"Why don't you be the judge of that, Dr Watson?" 

Mycroft sat down and pulled a partially resisting Sherlock across his lap.

"Get off, I hate you!"

“Yes, dear.” 

Sherlock simply loathed the way his body didn't seem to be able to fight back as effectively as he wanted it to in these situations. It was almost as if it chose to betray him, and he lost a considerable amount of his natural strength and skill. If any enemy or violent criminal had ever attempted even half the amount of manhandling he received from his brother, they'd have been dead within seconds. Yet being put over Mycroft's knee seemed to render him weak as a kitten and twice as uncoordinated. His conscious mind was a superb, impeccable genius; but his bloody subconscious was an incriminating idiot with no aptitude for self-preservation, that was the problem.

He felt Mycroft’s fingers at his waistband, and his trousers were wiggled down to expose his bare backside. He tried to prevent it, but his flailing arm was restrained. Then his brother’s leg wrapped round his own, and he was pinned down between the shoulder blades with a firm hand. He whinged, and gave reprieve one more hopeless try.

“John, stop him!”

Greg emitted a disapproving little growl.

John was genuinely torn. Not to mention squirmingly uncomfortable at seeing Sherlock Holmes bare-arsed over his brother’s lap. It sort of seemed like he should stop it. Instinct told him to leap to Sherlock’s defence at every turn. But he could rescue himself if he wanted to. He was physically just that bit stronger than Mycroft. And Mycroft was looking at him with a conspiratorial frown, shaking his head.

"Tell the truth, Sherlock. Please. Or John will misunderstand,” said Mycroft, with quiet seriousness.

Sherlock huffed and wiggled, but still couldn’t free himself. He turned his head to the side and locked eyes with a very wide-eyed John.

"Oh, all right! I need it, OK?!” he yelled. “I hate it, but I need it because it makes me feel…secure and loved, and all that rot!”

“Do you hate it, brother mine?” challenged Mycroft.

Sherlock grunted. “Yes! No. I don’t know! I just…want it. Rrrgh, so annoying!”

His tone softened as he saw John listening very carefully, still wondering whether he ought to jump into the fray. For a moment Sherlock had the horrible premonition of John actually roughing Mycroft up, and he hastened to correct the misapprehension he had deliberately played upon.

“John. It’s all right,” he said, a lot more calmly. “It’s what we do. It stops me spinning out of control, and it focuses my head. Lets me know I won't be allowed to get away with anything stupid or hurtful or damaging. And yes, I can separate it from the pleasurable kind of...that. And sometimes it gets nice after. But during, it's just humiliating and…hurts! But it's never abusive, because it's my choice. Ugh, I hate that! On the occasions I've properly refused my consent, I just get all... All heavy and weird, and that hurts more. So yes, my big brother..."

"Spanks you," finished Greg.

"Ugh. Yuck!" spat Sherlock, trying to kick his legs just to test his brother’s strength once more.

Mycroft held him more firmly. "He doesn't like the word to be mentioned out loud. But yes, Gregory. I do spank him. Rather hard."

Greg gave them both a reassuring wink. He knew a well-practiced routine when he saw one, and dreaded to think how many times they’d done this in the past. In the tens of thousands, surely.

"Good-o. Best get on with it then,” he said, encouragingly.

John was looking a tad pale. 

“Mate, are you all right?” checked Greg, touching his arm. “It’s OK. It’s a thing. You’ll see.”

John frowned and nodded.

_A thing. Just another bloody Holmes thing. Bloody hell._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still to be continued (don't hate me!)


	7. Intervention, part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spankings, discussions, and the evening comes to a climax.

John Watson had been in some strange situations in his long and varied career. But none quite so strange as being asked to deliberate on whether or not your new boyfriend could be spanked by his brother/lover in front of your old bonk buddy. All three men in question turned to John, waiting with bated breath for his green light. 

“You need not witness if it will cause you distress, or if it taps into anything nasty for you," said Mycroft, gently, giving him the out once more.

John gave a knowing half-smile at the consideration for his past traumas. This was unrelated, as far as he could sense.

He shrugged neutrally. “Only one way to find out, I guess.”

"Et tu, Watson?!" called Sherlock, with a fine sense of melodrama, which John correctly identified as his lover’s way of showing that he appreciated his complicity.

Mycroft nodded, satisfied with the mutual consent. He turned his attention to the miscreant over his lap, and Greg and John braced themselves for something of a scene.

Sherlock huffed as he felt all eyes turn to him, and he couldn’t help but blush at the picture he must make. Bare bottomed and vulnerable in front of these men for the first time. He hardly cared when it was just his brother. But this was a bit...revealing. He kicked his legs to prompt Mycroft to just get bloody on with it.

“Now, Lock. No more fuss from you. Sneaking out and falling through ceilings in the middle of the night, I ask you! Outrageous behaviour. We'll soon cleanse you of it.”

Sherlock winced as he felt his brother’s hand ascend high above him. It fell with predictable force in the middle of his cheeks, and repeated the procedure over again, as it had so many times before, peppering the sensitive flesh of his sit-spots with sharp smacks. He tried to stay silent for all of three seconds, hoping to put on a brave show for the onlookers. No such luck.

“Ow!” he wailed, as though he was being eviscerated with a hot knife rather than merely spanked.

Mycroft always started out harshly, to focus his brother’s mind. But there was no way it warranted screeching like a copulating fox.

Greg snorted and folded his arms. As if he’d expected Sherlock Holmes to be anything other than a very noisy spanking recipient. It was nonetheless fascinating. And a bit odd that his first sight of that peachy little backside was while it was being turned bright pink. Not exactly what he was hoping for, but he'd take it.

Unlike John, he was familiar with the concept of domestic discipline outside of a play scene, though admittedly not in an incestuous context. But it made sense to him. What was there to understand? You fuck up, you get punished by someone who loves you, you move on. Standard stuff. Much better than grudge-holding and permanent guilt. He’d itched to haul the lad off for a walloping himself before now, particularly after some spectacularly insulting tirades out on cases. But it seemed there had been some loving correction all along. He tried to imagine what Britain’s foremost detective would be like without it, and shuddered.

“Ow, Mycroft! Don’t! Stop! Please?!” howled Sherlock, furiously.

They had reached what Mycroft liked to think of as the Pointless Pleading stage, and he steadily continued whilst Lock squalled and wailed. His t-shirt had ridden up over his long back, so that he was bare from shoulder blades to mid-thigh. Always an edifying sight, even in these circumstances, but he was not a man easily distracted from duty.

Mycroft refused to make a performance of this. This was not about humiliation. He simply carried on their ritual as he normally would when they were alone. This would prove to be the final test. If this could be accepted as part of the deal, all would be well. He hoped showing John the truth of it would suffice. He had great faith in the good doctor to take his brother's perennial advice - to observe rather than simply see.

John watched uncomfortably at first, feeling he ought to leave the room as Sherlock's arse was thoroughly tanned. This felt weirdly more private, more intimate than anything else they'd engaged in, and it unsettled him. His heart hammered in his chest, and he was slightly ashamed of the fact it turned him on just a little bit. But then the mood shifted and it became distinctly unerotic; just a practical matter, something to be done to achieve a certain effect, nothing more interesting than that. The Holmes boys clearly knew what worked for them. Mycroft plainly took no sadistic pleasure from the act, and Sherlock did not seem to be enjoying himself, nor was he in undue distress. 

As though to deliberately undermine that thought, Sherlock shouted, “No more, had enough now!”, appalled by the burn across his exposed bum.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. That old chestnut. As if Little Brother ever got to dictate the length or pace of a spanking.

John could tell Sherlock was over-acting it. He’d seen the man face down serious pain with nothing more than a tight grimace. If anything, he over-tolerated pain. Just like himself. This wasn’t about pain. Sherlock was ow-ing and ah-ing to release something built up inside; and probably just to be dramatic too. He did so enjoy the sound of his own voice.

Mycroft slowed down a bit, and John heard him say, "Nearly done" in a gentle tone. It struck him as terribly considerate. Lock nodded his understanding, and began to come down a bit, breathing hard. 

“Tell me,” Mycroft said simply, patting his brother’s scorching behind. Confession Time was upon them.

“Ooh…,” cringed Sherlock, hating this bit most. “No! Ow! All right! I… Mycroft! I…ran off without telling John where I was going. I lied to him.”

Mycroft laid down a half dozen smarting blows upon the reddening globes in his lap.

“Hurts!”

“Why?" enquired Mycroft, sternly. "Why does your bottom hurt at this precise moment? And no naughty answers, thank you."

“Cos… I intervened… Ow! Interfered! I interfered with your date, and I broke Greg’s ceiling, and scared you both, and ruined your shag at the good bit! And I was being an arrogant cock thinking I could take over, when it was your right to tell him about us, not mine!” he burst out, almost in one breath.

John caught the affectionate smile on Mycroft’s face. Mycroft may have been expecting the confession. But he was astounded by it. He didn't think he'd ever heard Sherlock admit wrongdoing in their entire association.

_Wow._

Mycroft slowed his hand now, and Sherlock’s breath hitched and hiccupped as he jerked from the final flat blows over his tender skin.

“And something else, Lock, if you recall…,” he said, softly.

“Oh. Mmf! Yeah. I told Greg...how you feel about him, which wasn't my place. But that was an accident, Mycie, truly! I’m really sorry! Stupid mouth! It’s just obvious to me, and I… Didn’t think. Didn't think. Being punished cos I didn't think,” said Sherlock, sniffling as he spoke, voice strained with upset. “Greg, please don’t…”

“Hey, it’s all right,” said Greg, soothingly, moving to the floor in front of the sofa to calm the lad down. He ran his hand up and down Sherlock's long, loose arm. “Hasn’t done any damage. The opposite actually, but thanks for caring. Bet that big trap of yours has got you in much worse trouble, hasn't it? All OK now. Big brother's got you.”

Sherlock barely noticed that Mycroft had stopped spanking him and was now rubbing his bare back in smooth, slow circles.

“Ssh, baby. It’s all right. Forgiven. I know,” he crooned.

Sherlock was sobbing with heartfelt little gasps into his folded arms, hiding his face. John ached to comfort him. Mycroft caught his eye and beckoned him over with a tilt of the head.

"Here's your John to make you feel better."

Sherlock whimpered slightly into the cushion then turned to see a very tolerant, doting audience.

“Ouchers,” he said, pathetically, lower lip working overtime for the full sympathy factor.

Greg helped him up, and Sherlock winced as his backside made contact with the seat. Mycroft pulled at his arm, and he curled up on his brother's lap, rubbing his wet face into his lapels. His hand moved back to rub at himself, and Mycroft gently removed it. 

Sherlock huffed and nodded, apparently accepting the fact he wasn't permitted to soothe the sting just yet. He brought his arms round Mycroft's neck, and the elder Holmes let his knees drop open to take the pressure off his brother's sore bum, cradling him.

John joined them on the sofa, and stroked his lover's hair.

"You're all right, dearest, aren't you?” said Mycroft, knowingly. “I think John might be a bit concerned that I'm a brute."

"You are! He isn't, John," said Sherlock, looking round with watery, red-rimmed eyes. "Greg, you know he isn't, don't you?" he asked, anxiously.

"Of course. But then, I'm a bit of a brute myself, so..."

John chuckled. 

"I don't think that, Myc. I get it. Feel better now?”

Sherlock didn't immediately answer, and Mycroft nudged him.

"He will do in a minute. Don’t you have something to say to John?"

Sherlock turned, grimacing and half-smiling a sheepish smile.

"Sorry I lied about where I was going, John. I shouldn't have done that. Sorry for worrying you."

John simply melted. He wasn't sure he could recall the word 'sorry' being said at all, let alone in that tone before. Quietly, thoughtfully. After all they had been through together - all the dark, serious things - he had never wanted apologies. He had never felt there was anything for Sherlock to apologise for, not really. Some things were too huge for apologies, and some things were nobody's fault. There were only unstoppable events and bad decisions made by more people than just himself, and they had long moved past the point of pointless remorse for things they couldn't change.

It was the little things that mattered to John. It was things like being ditched, or being talked down to, or being kept in the dark about plans, or deliberately misled to prove a point. And things like domestic indolence, and unnecessary melodrama over missing socks or the wrong kind of jam. He set store by symbolic things. John wanted normal sorries. 'Sorry I left the butter out', 'sorry I implied you were stupid because you don't understand particle theory', 'sorry I had a tantrum and dissected the sofa with a scalpel'. Those kinds of sorries were worth something to John. And if this disciplinary business was what it took to click Sherlock's socialised brain into gear, he was glad of it. 

He thought back to the times after some classic bit of high-handed misbehaviour or a nasty row between them, recalling how his flatmate would disappear for an afternoon or a whole evening. Sherlock would return the next day in a much better mood, and do something nice for him. Not a verbal sorry, but definitely an act of sorriness. Like when he'd found a set of new shirts in his wardrobe after Sherlock had burst a blood pack over his laundry basket; nights after a storming-out when he'd come home to find his bedroom scrupulously tidied, and his books alphabetised; and the mornings he'd find a huge tupperware box of sandwiches and chocolate biscuits to take to work. Not Mrs H being kind at all. Not even bribes, or symptoms of boredom. Just Sherlock sorry for being a dick, and silently making it up to him.

It was Mycroft, he knew now, who made these things happen. Mycroft who purged Sherlock's guilt, who showed him the error of his ways, and set him back on the path to being a functional, more considerate, and less unintentionally hurtful whirlwind. Mycroft knew how to get through to baby brother. That much was clear. 

John dragged the lanky, well-spanked idiot back until he was draped over both of them. Greg stayed put on the floor, and patted his leg approvingly, then stroked at Mycroft's calf and Sherlock's hand simultaneously.

Sherlock smiled knowingly up at John, and winked.

Now John saw the mechanics of it, he understood. Hearing Sherlock say sorry was heartwarming, certainly. But it was more than a mere formality. It seemed to have calmed his lover, brought him some respite from his antsy, inexplicable edginess. The ever-changing quicksilver eyes were serene, and his shoulders had dropped by inches, as though some ineffable weight had been removed from them. And he was, frankly, cuddly. That was enough to convince John this was a Good Thing. 

"S'all right, mate. No problem now. Thanks. I can see what you mean about this thing. It's not horny, is it? Except maybe thinking about it after... A bit. Not cos you're in pain," he hastened to find the right words, and couldn't quite do it.

Sherlock saved him the bother. "It's all right if you do find it a bit horny. Sometimes wires get crossed like that. And I'm not in  _pain,_ exactly. Discomfort. Soreness. Mostly my ego is bruised, which is the point. I know it's not good for me to be let off lightly. But it is _so_ embarrassing! Oh, why do I even agree to it?!" he huffed, lightening the mood for all. 

Mycroft chuckled fondly. "Lockie still baffles himself." 

"Because I'm so incredibly complex, Mycie." 

"Yes, darling, you are. The best bit is afterwards, when he needs lots of fuss. He becomes a prissy little princeling, but I find I don't mind it at all."

"I can see the appeal," said John, warmly, kissing Lock’s cheek and blowing a raspberry on it just to make him squeal.

"Mm. He's gone all floppy, look," said Greg, teasingly waggling Sherlock's loose wrist and tickling him under the arm.

"Greg! Bugger off!"

John hugged him closer. "You really need this, don’t you?"

Sherlock nodded, biting his lip.

"Mm-hm. Can you cope? Do you think I'm weird? Weirder? Is it... Is it unattractive, John?"

John made a Holmes-ish 'you're a moron' face. "What do you think?"

Sherlock smiled with relief. "Mm. Not so much."

John nodded. "Correct. You need what you need."

"Where are my pants?" grumbled Sherlock, suddenly noticing his half-nakedness. "I'm not having this conversation with no pants on." 

John fished them from the back of the sofa and slipped them over his lover's feet, pulling them up over his sore arse carefully. Sherlock shifted and whined as they went on.

Mycroft coughed politely. "I'm glad you understand, John. I may want to delegate it to you on occasion," he said, airily.

Sherlock sat up with a start. "No chance!"

"If John deems it appropriate, he ought to have the same rights you afford to me. An extra deterrent. Don't you think that sounds fair?"

"But...taking it from John!" exclaimed Sherlock, horrified and flushing pink at the very notion. 

John seemed somewhat taken aback, but resolved to give it some thought. He wasn’t one to shirk responsibility, but he wondered whether he could pull off the cool-headed composure which came so naturally to the elder Holmes, and his obvious aptitude for the activity. Maybe one day. If called for.

Greg prodded Mycroft's leg.  "What about me, then?"

Mycroft smirked, and he raised an arched eyebrow.

"Ah, Gregory. You know we have your, erm, dominant tendencies worked out by now. And that you have experience in a certain context. We were hoping… It is difficult for me to be the disciplinarian all the time…”

Greg could see what he meant.

“Takes its toll. Especially the amount you must have to do it.”

Sherlock glared at him.

“Indeed," said Mycroft, nodding. "I find… My brother and I have talked for some time about this, and there are certain things he might want, or need, which I am reluctant or unable to give. He sometimes requires stronger force, and it is an issue between us that I am not comfortable providing it. It becomes rather emotionally complicated. More so than it already is. Of course, I adore him in all ways. But we feel the time has come to hand over the reigns of power, so to speak. Also… I have quite enough responsibility at work. I am not naturally that way inclined in private, really.”

“Nah, you’re a pussycat, darl. Need a bad guy, do you?” said Greg, perceptively.

Mycroft chuckled.

“Not precisely.”

“More like a big bad wolf,” said Sherlock, mischievously. "Or panto villain, whichever you prefer. Think you can handle me, Lestrade?"

Greg practically licked his lips, while Mycroft pinched his brother's thigh to shut him up. 

“We would like you to perform that more dominant role in our lives, as you see fit. In and out of the bedroom. I think Lock was rather hoping for it."

" _Yo_ _u_ were! He wants you to smack his arse with all kinds of things, Greg. And shove things up his bum. Put him out of his misery! I can do the bum things, but I'm not whacking him with sticks. Yuck."

Greg laughed as the elder Holmes's face fell and he sighed with mock-reluctance. 

"Well. Yes. I do want a bit of controlling. Mostly for, erm...erotic purposes. But also, outside of the bedroom. I consent to whatever disciplinary action you may deem necessary for me. Though I am impeccably well-behaved, of course. There are certain things I should like help with, however. My transgressions tend to be things like overwork, or perhaps making cutting remarks when I am in a bate. I isolate myself sometimes, or let myself become overtired because of an unexpressed problem. I do try to curb my tendencies to moodiness, but I am not always successful. I am not one for showy displays of naughtiness, unlike some." 

"That is an out and out lie!" Sherlock objected. "Your naughtiness is just different to mine. You're far sneakier and you play far longer mind-games than I do!" 

Greg fixed Mycroft with a stern glare, indicating he wasn't going to put up with any of that rubbish.

“I would like to explore a dynamic different to the one between Lock and myself. Yes. I would like you to, erm, take charge. Would you consider accepting that proposition, Gregory?”

“Are you taking the piss? Is it Christmas or something?” said Greg, grinning from ear to ear. “Subject to negotiations, of course. Rules and regs. Got to do it proper. But no worries. If you want seeing to, I'm your man. We’ll ‘thrash’ it out, yeah?”

“No stupid puns!” demanded Sherlock, horrified.

“What about me?” said John, curiously. An appalling thought occurred to him. “I’m not bending over to let you smack my arse for not putting the bins out or something. Forget it!”

Greg tutted. “Shame, you’d benefit from a few good hidings. Of course you don’t have to! I’m not forcing it on anyone. Happy with whatever, me. Non-sexual punishment, definitely not for everyone. But you get off on a bit of rough stuff in bed, so don't pretend you're not partial to being shown a thing or two. I’ve heard the noise you make when someone spills a load of hot wax on you… Not immune to being told what to do either. Are you, soldier?”

John snorted and blushed.

"Well, no. But I give as good as I get, mate. Bet I could get you to call me Sir if I wore my old dress uniform..."

Mycroft shifted in his seat and cleared his throat, a telltale flush upon his neck at this outrageous macho flirting, and the once-imagined-never-forgotten image of John in uniform. He smiled charmingly.

“You don’t have to submit to anyone or hold anything back, John. Your preferences are your own. Exercise them in whichever way makes you most content. You have, shall we say, broad tastes.”

“Slut,” said Sherlock, simply. Then yelped as John slapped at his sore backside in revenge.

Sherlock looked at him, intrigued. Throughout their honeymoon phase, it had been mostly non-stop sex with John, but not an awful lot of kinky experimentation beyond three-way romping, and a few vanilla things like blindfolds and handcuffs, a bit of rudimentary bum-smacking and dirty talk. But they hadn’t truly explored John's various limits, nor had they expanded their repertoire much beyond vigorous fucking with fraternal voyeurism. Now, with Greg, they would run the full gamut of sensory experience, with power-play thrown in, and layer and layers of complexity. And rules. Rules which could be wonderfully broken with extra sets of hands to catch him if he went too far. Perhaps it _was_ Christmas or something. 

"Let's talk properly in the morning," said Greg, firmly, taking control instantly. What was the point of waiting? "We’ll figure out how to deal with the pair of you naughty Holmes boys. I’ll referee. John can play midfield.”

"I think it's appalling," said Sherlock, haughtily.

"No, you don't, darling."

"Let me finish, Mycroft! I think it's appalling...that none of you have even offered to get me off once yet! My bum's gone all nice now, and I've already been tortured with amateur porn this evening, and then kissing, and now all this talk of bending over and hot wax and uniforms!" He pointed with both hands to the impressive outline of his erection underneath his pants. "You're supposed to be kind to me after everything I've been through! Someone make me come, or you're all fired."

They gaped at him a little. Mycroft was the first to recover. 

"Little Brother is quite right. If extremely impolite. I do feel he's earned some kind of reward for the emotional labour he's put in here. Don't you, gentlemen?"

John and Greg looked at each other. 

"Yep," they said, simultaneously. 

"What would you like, dear boy?" said Mycroft, playing up his indulgent big brother role for the others.

"Hmm," said Sherlock, tapping his lips with his fingertips. "That one, and that one," he said, pointing at the two non-Holmes men. "And you watch, because I had to watch earlier and you were mean to me."

Mycroft smirked. "Poor hard done-by thing."

"No, I haven't been hard done by, that's exactly my point! Someone do me hard!"

Mycroft grappled his brother into a kiss, and John began eagerly whipping off his clothes. Greg stared at them for a second as though they were insane. Then he remembered that they were, and so was he, and he shucked his dressing gown off with a flourish. His hard-on sprang into view. John stared at it as if to say 'oh yeah, I remember you,' and wiggled off the sofa past the Holmeses as they passionately stripped each other.

Greg pulled John into a naked embrace, and they went at it until they were both leaking against each other, acutely aware that this was the first time they'd seen each other naked since they stopped screwing each other the first time round. How easily they fell back into old habits.

"Tell me how, Lock...," said Mycroft, in a theatrical whisper. 

Sherlock replied likewise. 

"Want to suck Greg's big cock," he said, in his naughty brat voice. "Want John to fuck me at the same time, so Greg can see him. Want them to fuck through me."

"You heard him," said Mycroft. "What Lockie wants, Lockie gets. Within reason. Doesn't that seem reasonable to you?"

They nodded dumbly, and exchanged glances to check the other man was OK with his assigned role. 

"Lube in the coffee table drawer, mate," said Greg, merrily, keeping himself hard with his hand. Second shag of the night. Pretty good going. 

"Wanker," snorted John, reading his showy smugness for what it was. A tension-breaker. 

Sherlock raised himself onto all fours on the sofa, awaiting attention like a pampered pet. Mycroft stayed sitting in the middle, his legs in the space between his brother's hands and knees, masturbating with his prick aimed upwards at Sherlock's stomach.

Greg moved to Sherlock's head-end, putting one foot up on the sofa in a lunge so he could reach him better, while John did the same at the rear. Sherlock gazed in wide-eyed awe at Greg's cock, and grinned filthily up at him through his lashes. He heard the sticky-slickness of John lubing himself up, and wiggled his still-warm bottom at him. John smacked him lightly again, and winked down at Mycroft, who watched over all with a hot, hawkish gaze.

"Oh, Greg," said Sherlock, lasciviously, "I'd like to thank you for fucking my brother so well. Stick it in my mouth like you stuck it up his arse."

"Fuckin'hell...," groaned Greg, light-headed, as Sherlock moved in and began licking kittenishly at his prick, lapping up the precome and mouthing at his balls. Sherlock grinned and inhaled Lestrade's clean, musky scent, suspecting that he had only showered before John arrived on the off-chance of just this eventuality. He opened his mouth wide to take in the broad head, and swallowed around it a few times, drawing gasps and groans. 

John watched slack-jawed as Greg's face twisted into agonising pleasure and Sherlock's dark head bobbed up and down, slurping obscenely and beautifully around his cock. He shook himself, desperate to join in. As Sherlock bent lower and moved forwards, he placed a lubed finger to his entrance and began working his way in. Sherlock pulled back at the sensation, making Greg moan deeply. And then Sherlock moaned around him as he felt John's finger fully breach him, followed by another, in their familiar, much-loved pattern.

Mycroft was biting his lip as he masturbated beneath them, not knowing who to look at, not quite able to take in the whole picture, but seeing and hearing and smelling their unique profiles in the air. It was crazy-making. Lock was braced on his hands, his prick hard and dripping onto his brother's lap. Mycroft took it in his other hand and began to massage it in time to his own strokes. 

Steeling himself not to just come over his lover's sore arse, John gripped Sherlock's hips and guided himself to the waiting hole, winking at him from between delightfully plush, pink cheeks. When he pressed the blunt head of his cock to it, it gave way almost immediately. He looked up to see Greg's reaction, and received a filthy wolverine grin. 

"Yeah," said Greg, hoarsely, using Sherlock's ears as handles to control his movements, stopping the lad from taking too much. "Give the naughty boy what he wants, John. Fuck him onto me..."

John sank in, angling upwards to force his lover's body forwards, and slid home in a controlled thrust.

Greg pulled Sherlock's head a bit closer, and the detective looked up; his mouth wide and full, and a mucky glint in his pale eyes.

"Ooh, Lock," groaned John, seeing stars. "Gonna come so hard you'll taste both of us... Look Myc. Look at him being done at both ends. Fuck me, you love it, don't you?"

The Holmes brothers whimpered together at this spontaneous dirty talk face-off. It was almost certainly a tie, but they hoped their men would compete for the trophy forever.

They fell into a rhythm, John and Greg reading Lock's body language and letting him control the movements - though their hands at his head and hips gave the impression they were pushing and pulling him between them. Mycroft's head was thrown back now as he became overwhelmed by the combined masculine grunts of passion filling the room. 

Sherlock felt simply taken over by sensation. His cock was being expertly wanked left-handed, and he once again gave thanks for ambidextrous brothers. His arse was full of John, curving inside him just right, hitting his centre perfectly as they had practiced all these months. His mouth was full of Greg - new, unfamiliar, challenging, and evidently extremely careful. His jaw was aching, but he was never pushed beyond what he wanted to take. The man knew what he was doing. They all did. 

Mycroft was surprised to realise he was about to be the first to come. For the second time that evening. Perhaps he wasn't quite so lost to middle age as he thought, because he felt like a randy teenager. It was sensory overloand - his arse was still buzzing from his rogering, his brother was dripping over his fist, and Gregory and lovely Johnny were pushing themselves into Lock like they knew how special he was... He heaved a huge sigh, and suddenly he was shuddering and spending - less copiously than before, but it counted. His semen hit his stomach, and he quickly scooped it up and used it as lubricant to make stroking Lock easier.

John groaned at the sight of Sherlock's wobbling arse; Mycroft's sex-slackened face; Greg biting his lip and frowning in deep erotic concentration. He bit his lip as he chased his own release. He'd been desperate for it all day, and was pissed off to find his boyfriend had buggered off earlier in the evening. He had him now though. Impaled and writhing on his cock, right where he needed to be. His hips jerked as he felt his orgasm thud up through his tensed thighs, flooding though his groin. He came pulsing up inside Sherlock, pushing it all into him with a broken cry and a rigid, shattered expression on his broad, handsome features.

Sherlock squeaked at the sensation inside him, then moaned low in his throat so it reverberated through Greg's swollen cock. Their moans fell into sync, and with a flick of Mycroft's wrist, a twist of John's hips, and a contraction of Sherlock's throat, they came almost perfectly together. Greg's hot seed shot into Sherlock's mouth as his own semen came gushing from him, over Mycroft's legs and onto the sofa cushions below.

Greg felt compression in his head at the strength of his orgasm. It took him by surprise, and he panted heavily through it. He slowed his hips almost to a standstill as Sherlock gulped him down, but jerked uncontrollably as his oversensitive tip was suckled upon. 

"Oi, let me go, greedy," he chuckled, pulling away to recover his breath. He looked down at his new lover - a pretty sight indeed. Baby blue eyes, teasing tongue licking remnants of spunk from his plump, swollen lips, smirking up at him through damp curls and doe lashes, as though to say 'Yeah, this will work just fine.' The cat that got the cream. 

John pulled away slowly, and bent to plant a kiss on his lover's backside.

"Well, there you go then," he said, casually.

After a few seconds of silence, giggling inevitably began, which transformed into deep, rich laughter all round.  

Sherlock shoved Greg away playfully, and wiped his mouth, flopping down and squashing his brother with an 'oof!'

"Beast!" he said, delighted with his new playmate.

"I'll give you beast, m'lad, any day," said Greg, knuckling his chin. Then his expression changed to one of reproach.

"Oh. Bloody hell, look what you've done to my sofa, you careless little sod!" he moaned, seeing the sticky splashes on the cushions. 

Mycroft coughed guiltily. 

"Some of that might be mine..."

"You don't want to look at this end, mate," laughed John, hysterically. "It's dribbled out of him..."

Sherlock smirked and quickly turned over to sit fully on the sofa, bare-arsed and dripping. 

"You little bastard! You're having that cleaned. I'll put it on the bill along with the hole in the ceiling!"

Sherlock merely laughed harder, letting himself be pinched and slapped and kissed by multiple hands and mouths.

A satisfactory evening indeed. Mycroft had promised him interesting new experiences, and Mycroft always kept his promises.

After a perfunctory clean-up, yawning began in earnest. It was nearly 3am.

Greg stood up, groaning as his back clicked.

"Bed time. I'm knackered," he said, brooking no dissent. "John, Lock, you're staying. No buggering about with taxis."

"Cool. Where can we sleep?"

"I do own a bed, I remember me and Mycie messing it right up earlier. But if all four of us get in it, I'm not sure anyone will get any kip. Here's a brilliant idea - you get the spunky sofa. It's a fold out. Not so funny now, is it? But, er, I dunno who..."

Mycroft intervened. "If it's all right, I'd like to wake up with you, Gregory. Finish our date off properly. John and Lock, will the hideous sofa bed do for you?"

John nodded amiably. "Yeah, we're not even supposed to be here. But he's having the wettest patch." 

"I want to sleep all together!" whined Sherlock.

"I shall have enormous bespoke beds made and delivered to all accommodations, you have my word. But I can't magic them here tonight. Sofa bed with Johnny for you."

John laughed. "Johnny, how did that creep in?"

"Oh. It just slipped out," said Mycroft, a little embarrassed. "I sometimes think of you as Johnny. I think it's rather jaunty. Do you loathe it?"

"No. S'nice." John was delighted to have had a nickname bestowed upon him.

"John's gone all girly! Ha!"

"I'll show you girly when I'm smacking your arse raw one of these days, you little git. Say goodnight to these two lovebirds and help me with the foldout. Bloody dragging me out to Lambeth all hours of the morning just to kickstart an orgy...," he muttered, wrathfully.

Sherlock yawned and made no move to help whatsoever. "Mm. Nice orgy."

"Upstairs, you," said Greg, flicking his finger at Mycroft. 

"Yes, dear," sighed Mycroft, playing at being very put-upon.

Halfway out, Greg turned back.

"Stay the weekend here, boys, yeah? Go and get the babygirl, bring her round."

Mycroft frowned doubtfully. "Really, Gregory, a child in the house while we spend a weekend thrashing out the terms of a four-way orgy? Not to mention other things not for small ears."

"I'm not suggesting we keep her in the same room while we do it! But you can't expect John to abandon her just cos he's got a bit of a chronic shag situation on the go."

John smirked, liking the sound of a chronic shag situation. But he shook his head. "No cot round here, mate. Can't dismantle it and bring it over. The trouble with kids, they generate a lot of stuff."

"I think a preferable option would be to decamp to my house, then," said Mycroft, magnanimously, pleased to be of use. "Write a list of all the young lady requires and I will have all the necessaries set up by tomorrow evening. There is more room to spread out there. No offence, Gregory."

"None taken. Never been to your house. Bet it's well posh."

"It is, it's dreadful," said Sherlock, cheerfully. "Rosie will puke all over it."

Mycroft looked rather horrified, but sighed tolerantly. "I suppose I will have to make Rosamund's acquaintance a little more closely, then, if I am to persuade her not to decorate the place. I will need John to reintroduce me. We are currently only on nodding terms. Though I don't know if females take to me, particularly."

Sherlock giggled at this unwitting falsehood. Women seemed to do nothing but take to his brother, and he was completely oblivious to it.

"You'll be all right," said John, grinning. "Just another new family member for you, Myc. Don't be scared of her. She's not scared of you."

"Oh. That's good. I think." 

Sherlock glowered suddenly. "But she likes me best and always will. Just you remember that."

"You're the one that should be scared of me, you little menace...," mumbled Mycroft, as he made a dignified nude exit.

Sherlock waved at him with sarcastic impudence.

"And goodnight to you too, baby brother."

When they had disappeared upstairs, Sherlock slipped his pants off and leaned back to check the damage wrought on his bottom. 

"Look at that, John! Handprints! He always goes over the top. Not fair."

"Looked pretty fair to me."

"John!"

"Get in bed and I'll rub it better."

"Mm. That'd be nice. Then in the morning, could you rub it better with your cock again, please?"

"God, you don't hold back, do you?"

"What on earth would be the point, Watson?"

As usual, John realised he had no choice but to agree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts and feelings welcome, lovely readers. xx


	8. Discussions in North London

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day after the gang get together - deals are struck, they get to know each other a bit better, and the Holmes brothers reveal a bit more about their past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please forgive me for the abominable absence recently - to be honest, I've had massive writer's block due to a series of unfortunate real life events, curse them! I am working my way back into this and Date Night, and all the rest I've promised. This chapter is a bit sexless, but the next one won't be, and will be more swiftly delivered. Bouncing back, really hope you haven't given up on me! xxx

The following day they decamped to Hampstead as intended. John went back to Baker Street first, to pick up Rosie. Mycroft was going to have to pass this little test now, having always rather avoided the issue of John’s daughter - whether out of some misplaced sense that it was none of his business or from abject terror of tiny humanoids, John could not quite tell.

He arrived to find that a guest bedroom had been equipped with all the accoutrements of a nursery, as promised. Although, it gave the appearance of a nursery designed for an aristocratic baby of the utmost taste and refinement, which Rosie Watson definitely was not.

John bounced her in his arms, grinning at Mycroft, who checked everything over with a proprietorial air to make sure his every order had been obeyed. It had. But then, it always had.

"This is your Uncle Mycie, pickle. Remember him?”

Mycroft stopped in his tracks, caught like a deer in headlights as the fair-haired child gurgled merrily in his general direction.

John nodded at her encouragingly. “Yeah. We used to think he was a lizard but he's turned into a handsome Prince. He's your Uncle Lock's big brother, and just as susceptible to the old Watson charm, so give him hell. Myc, this is Rosie. Just do everything she tells you and you'll be fine."

Mycroft looked singularly anxious now, and cleared his throat as though addressing a particularly volatile world leader. She in turn regarded him with a pursed mouth and a suspicious frown.

"Ah. Yes. Miss Watson. We meet again. My home is your home, etcetera.”

John smirked and moved towards him, holding her out as though brandishing a deadly weapon. Mycroft raised his hands in protest.

“No, John, I'm not sure she wants to... Oh."

His arms closed automatically as the baby was placed in them, and he regarded her with trepidation while Greg and Sherlock hovered in the background trying not to laugh. Well, Greg was trying not to laugh. Lock was laughing with Greg's hand over his mouth.

John looked incredibly pleased with himself.

“Relax, Myc. I promise she’s not a bomb or a Ming vase. Though she is priceless, obviously.”

The elder Holmes's mouth opened and closed. He looked frankly horrified.

John tutted at him. "Say something nice, then."

His nose wrinkled as he gazed down at the small, pinkish creature he was terrified of either detonating or dropping.

"Erm. You smell a lot pleasanter than I was expecting,” he ventured.

"That was _rubbish_!" called Sherlock, with delight, escaping Lestrade's clutches.

Mycroft bit his lip disconsolately. "I know."

Greg took pity on him. "Give her here, then. Hello, duck. Remember me? I'm the one you come to if anyone messes you about.”

“Ugh, pay no attention to them, Watson,” said Sherlock. “You’ve already been recruited to my cause. Ignore these ones. Er, apart from Daddy Dearest of course,” he finished at John’s stern glare. “Oh, look, Greg, you’ve bored her to sleep already!”

“Yeah, always had that effect on women, to be fair. S’why I switched to lads. Lucky for you, sunshine,” he said, with a lecherous wink.

The girl was dozing, either overwhelmed by the attention of so many handsome men, or utterly blasé about it. Either way, John caught the window of opportunity and decided to put her to bed in the lavishly-styled cot. He insisted that Mycroft stay to get used to the idea of her, whilst Greg and Sherlock withdrew downstairs.

Moments later, John appeared in the living room to find them both sitting a little shyly but companionably together on the sofa. He shushed their chatter with a grin and a wave, and turned on a handheld baby monitor. They huddled round it to eavesdrop, suppressing giggles at the stilted gallantry of the British Government attempting to impress his new house guest. 

"Now, Rosamund, if I may. I shall endeavour to provide your heart's desires. I come bearing milk, and a story about talking rabbits. Please don't scream or your father will have my guts for garters. And, erm... You appear to be dribbling bubbles. Like Sherlock when he's consumed alcohol. You must never emulate your Uncle Lock. He is very naughty. But I suppose that's why you like him so much. Certainly your father's daughter. Hmm. You are a quiet one, aren't you? Interesting. My only experience of infants was my brother, and he was offensively loud. Still is. Now, are we lying comfortably, madam? Than we shall begin. 'Once upon a time there were four little Rabbits, and their names were Flopsy, Mopsy, Cotton-tail, and Peter.' Oh, honestly, who writes this inane drivel...? Next time we shall have H.G. Wells, my dear..."

When Mycroft finally came back downstairs, his lovers – old and new - looked pointedly elsewhere.

"She's asleep, John,” he said, with just a tinge of pride.

John grinned up at him. “Ta, Mary Poppins. Loved the bunny impressions.”

Mycroft gave a cool raise of the eyebrow at the mass choking laughter which met his burning ears.

"Thank you. I believe we see eye to eye, the young lady and I. She will do her best not to vomit on anything too expensive, and I will find something more entertaining than rabbit nonsense to read to her."

Sherlock sat up and bounced on the spot.

"Treasure Island!"

"Mm, The Time Machine first, brother," corrected Mycroft. One must always prioritise ideas over adventure, he thought.

Greg wagged his finger at them.

“As long as you keep yer mitts off Paddington. I’m doing Paddington. No-one else is allowed.”

John snorted affectionately at the rather soppy domestic turn the afternoon had taken, but he couldn’t find it in himself to have any misgivings about it. This was _something_ now. He felt it. Here were these men who cared, who seemed to take it all in their stride - each wonderfully different and differently wonderful. When he began his romantic adventures with Sherlock, and then more properly with Mycroft, he had dared to get used to the idea of not being a single man anymore. He realised he could definitely get used to the idea of not being a single father. Greg, ever-dependable, was already good at it. Holmeses were adaptable. All of them were fiercely protective of their own. His own. A family, or sorts. He fervently hoped it could be. It was all he’d ever wanted, however unconventional.

“Thanks for having us round, Myc,” he said, in lieu of anything more embarrassingly gushing.

Mycroft smiled at the intended understatement, seeing all of John’s open-hearted optimism in his green-gold eyes.

“Do please come more often.”

“Oh, I will, mate,” John replied with a leer, because it didn’t do to let an opportunity for double entendre to pass, no matter how bloody mushy he was feeling.

They sat together in Mycroft’s large living room, falling into innocuous conversation for a time, about the news and about work - all of them adjusting to being in one place at one time, getting to know each other in their new capacity as a sort of quartet. The aftermath of the libidinous night before felt all too easy, with each man relaxed and buzzing in the company of the others; feeling that all was right with the world.

Mycroft disappeared to the kitchen to prepare bread and cheese, and small plates of what Greg referred to as ‘posh nibbly bits’.

Sherlock scoffed as much as he could, suddenly ravenous after an eventful few days. Any remaining anxiety he felt had fluttered away the moment he'd woken up on Lestrade's sofa-bed, to find John in his arms, smiling up at him, with Greg and Mycie sipping tea in their dressing gowns, speaking in hushed voices as though this were just their usual morning routine. The tingly sensation on his bum had dissipated from last night though. He always regretted when the feeling of one of Mycroft’s spankings faded - though he would never, ever admit as much, even under the most heinous of torture conditions. Nevertheless, he felt enlivened by the sheer acceptance he had been granted, and was utterly overjoyed to be exactly where he was - with his beloved brother, his beloved best friend, and his beloved crush and future...someone rather tingly. 

They cracked open a bottle of the elder Holmes’s best Bordeaux, and began to flirt outrageously with each other as they drank it. But certain matters still required discussion, and it was Greg who blinked first, deciding it was time to get down to brass tacks.

"How are you feeling about last night, Johnnyboy?" he said, munching on a hunk of French bread smothered in butter.

"Haven't changed my mind. Not going to," shrugged John. He smiled muckily as he remembered all the things he hadn’t changed his mind about. The image of Greg coming in Sherlock’s mouth loomed particularly large in his memory, without the slightest tinge of jealousy accompanying it.

"And the, er, spanking part?" asked Mycroft, casting a furtive teasing glance at his brother.

Sherlock shuddered and threw an olive at him. "No s-word!"

John was pleased to be asked. The heat of the moment last night was one thing, but it made sense to check in after a bit of cooling off had taken place. Though he doubted things would remain cool for long.

"Yeah, I'm fine with it. I mean, I don't have experience of it, personally. Not growing up or anything. I suppose it's just a bit new, the idea of separating it in a sexy way and having it as a kind of emotional, behavioural thing. I saw how it was. Never gonna stand in the way of anything you need – any of you - you know that. I'll get into the swing of it.”

Mycroft frowned. "Horrible pun. But thank you, dear. Gregory? You’re really all right with taking us on, so to speak?”

Greg rather smouldered at him, and then at Sherlock, who fluttered his eyelashes and licked a piece of baguette suggestively.

Greg grinned his most lupine grin, and both Holmeses practically whimpered.

"Oh, I know the score,” he said. “Don't overanalyse anything, me.” He turned to John, offering his own bit of homespun wisdom for reassurance. “I do have experience of 'the spanking part', growing up. My Mum's hidings were legendary. Very sparingly used. But you took the threat seriously, I can tell you. I know it's a cliché, but it really didn't do me any harm, because it was always explained, and it was always controlled. Loving. A good way to rid yourself of whatever bloody stupid thing you'd done, and have a line drawn under it. No grudges, no referring back to past mistakes. Just a sore bum and lots of cuddling, and proper forgiveness. I always thought it was very, what's the word...?" 

"Cathartic,” suggested Mycroft. “It purged your emotion. Made it tolerable and brought you back down to earth."

"Exactly that. Cathartic. Stopped me playing silly buggers. Definitely instilled a few much-needed lessons. Forced a good cry when I was too proud to give in. Effective for a lad like me. Probably quite good for boys in general."

"And your father?" asked Sherlock, leaning forward with curiosity.

"Never laid a finger. Mum always threatened us with 'your Dad's belt' but we all knew it was rubbish. He was a softie. She sorted all that out. Worst you'd get was six of the best with her wooden spoon. She was a scourge, God bless her."

Mycroft chuckled fondly.

"Yes, well, I rather took the job on from Mummy when Lock came along. I, of course, never needed it."

"You weaselly liar!” exclaimed Sherlock, outraged. “You're still scared of her because you think she might do it! He used to wail the house down!" he said to the others, pointing at his brother accusingly.

They watched in amusement as the Holmes boys turned upon each other.

"She is not a woman to be crossed, little brother! Just because you could wheedle your way around her with ridiculous playacting, all weepy eyes and fake sniffles. It's offensive that she let herself fall for it! Even now you only have to flutter your eyelashes and she’s putty in your hands!"

Sherlock made a horribly smug face. "Ha ha. Just because she loves me best."

"Lock!” gasped Mycroft in shock. “Don't say that. Not even in jest!"

Sherlock raised his hand in remorse, though he knew he hadn’t been taken seriously.

"Sorry. We both know she actually loves the cat best," he explained for John and Greg’s benefit.

Mycroft’s eyes darkened. "Yes. Bloody Pythagoras, that hissing little bastard!"

"Gengis Khan in feline shape!" agreed Sherlock heartily.

They giggled to themselves and drank some more while their lovers exchanged delighted grins at being so shamelessly performed for.

"Right, let’s do some thrashing out, like you promised,” said Greg, hoping to sort things before everyone became too pissed and randy. "I have my own rules about stuff, but I can't imagine they're much different to yours."

Sherlock winced and decided to hide his face in a cushion while humiliating terms were agreed about the future fate of his rear end. John put his stocking-feet on up on the coffee table, ignoring Mycroft’s grimace of displeasure, and observed, fascinated.

Mycroft leaned forward as though at a Whitehall negotiation.

"A warning is given first, where possible. If the behaviour is not corrected, it inevitably leads to smarting consequences."

Greg nodded, sensibly. 

"Yep. What infractions usually warrant it? Not general stroppiness, or your arm would never get a break, I'd imagine."

Sherlock glared over the top of his cushion, looking betrayed. He was, predictably, ignored.

"No, indeed. I have no desire to stop Lock being Lock,” said Mycroft, fondly. “I merely wish to prevent him being harmful in the future. If he causes harm to himself or others through deliberate carelessness or disobedience - running off alone to chase criminals is a particular bugbear - I take that very seriously." 

"Sometimes I have to!" interrupted Sherlock.

"Sometimes you have to pursue alone, but you always have to tell me - or any one of us first! As soon as you can.” 

Greg emphatically agreed. 

"Lying, directly or by omission, is absolutely the worst offence,” continued Mycroft. “Then there's mischief designed to aggravate. I don’t spank him for unintentional disasters or genuine mishaps. Simple miscalculations with no underlying agenda or naughty motive are a cause for leniency. Though good luck telling the difference. You’ll need to consult me at first, I imagine."

Greg was tempted to take notes, but decided he wouldn’t really have a problem remembering it.

"Fine. Let me add, ooh, just off the top of my head - damage to personal property, theft. Well, anything illegal, and anything that causes me extra paperwork, let's face it. Treating other peoples' thoughts and feelings with disrespect,” he added. “In the workplace, especially. In _my_ workplace, even more especially.”

"Rudeness," chimed in John, looking a bit too happy for Sherlock’s liking. "Sneakiness. Manipulation. Dickishness." 

Sherlock looked up, red-faced and scowling. At this rate, he'd never be off Greg's lap. He imagined himself trying to do deductions whilst permanently bent over, and the absurd image made him giggle out loud. They looked at him with disapproval and he coughed innocently. 

"Danger-seeking without adequate risk management,” continued Mycroft, with a meaningful glance at John who at least had the self-awareness to blush.

"I try to encourage him to eat and sleep regularly, but that of course is not so easy for him. I would never punish him for genuinely struggling with those things. If it becomes an issue which he suppresses and it causes him to misbehave in other ways, that would count. The general rule is always to communicate. But Lock adores acting up, and all attention is good attention, really, isn't it, baby boy? He can't always help it. But the moments when he can help it are the ones that earn him a very sore bottom indeed." 

Sherlock whinged as Greg nodded with what he considered to be an infuriatingly condescending air.

"Boundaries. Lad needs boundaries. I've said it since the day I met him.”

John merely smirked like a spectator enjoying an especially entertaining play.

"We all need those, really,” said Mycroft, sagely, “But my, or rather _our_ , Lock is less able to set them for himself than most. It's just the way his brain works. He needs a reminder on the portion of his anatomy most suited to bear the brunt. The way to Sherlock Holmes’s head and heart is via his backside."

“Mycroft!” exclaimed Sherlock, appalled by this conclusion, and by the hearty laughter which met it.

Greg smiled. "Cool. That's all as I'd want it. He has to agree that he deserves it first, out loud. Once he agrees, no wiggling out of it, and no arguing with the sentence handed down. He either trusts me or he doesn't. Same goes for you, Mycie Holmes, if it ever comes to that. All of the same rules." 

Mycroft cleared his throat self-consciously, feeling teasing eyes on him from all sides.

"That is also understood."

"You said last night he might need more than just my hand, and you're not comfortable with using things on him?"

Mycroft went to respond but was cut-off by his brother.

"It upsets him too much. I mean, it upsets me more! But it doesn't really work for us," admitted Sherlock, already regretting contributing to this conversation. 

Mycroft's mouth twitched at the corners. 

"My brother is quite correct."

Greg could easily perceive the issues. 

"OK. Choice of implement is mine, then. I'll decide what he deserves, and if more than my hand is called for. I'm pretty open-minded about tools, and I can use them safely. So you'll get a dose of my belt if you push it. Don't usually go in for paddles and stuff, but it wouldn't do you any harm if the strap's too strong and a spanking's not enough. It'll hurt like a bastard, mind you. But no harm."

Sherlock huffed and returned to his cushiony hiding place, while Mycroft beamed at Gregory in thanks.

Greg returned the look with fondness. "What about anything heavier? Canes, crops?" he asked, running through his mental check-list. John winced a little at the idea, but made no attempt to question it. They all seemed to know what they were getting into.

"I hate to use them on Lock," confessed Mycroft, "And his pride won't let him take it from me without mental resistance. They're not familiar, childish items, so they push him more firmly into an adult mindset, which disrupts the dynamic between us. He focuses too much on being brave and it loses its cathartic effect. Either item would be acceptable as a last resort from you, however. For the most serious offences. The self-endangering ones."

Greg nodded thoughtfully.

"He likes it!" accused Sherlock, pointing at his brother, his voice muffled by fabric. "You can thrash his arse as much as you want, he'll go all 'yes, sir, thank you, sir' and count his strokes and everything." 

Mycroft grimaced.

"Enough! I... I do think the cane would be effective for myself, however you wish to apply it. I certainly hope to experiment with my own threshold in play. As a disciplinary deterrent you may assume its use for both of us. Though I will do my utmost to avoid it, and Lock will push you into using it."

Sherlock looked up in outrage. 

"I most certainly will not!"

Greg smirked, rather thrilled.

"Got your number, Trouble. And yours, Mycie. Old-fashioned types, aren't you? Like that whole scene, I bet. Can do."

"Good. Have we missed anything? What else...," pondered Mycroft, brow furrowed.

"I want to be in the room," said John, surprising them all. They turned to him enquiringly and he felt suddenly self-conscious.

"I mean, if you'll let me. If you're going to be using canes and stuff, or playing hard. Don't get me wrong, I'm sure you're all experts. But, I dunno, as a doctor... Stuff can be dangerous. I'd just feel better if I was in the room for anything major, punishment or not. Am I being stupid?"

They all shook their heads.

"Just being safety-conscious, aren't you?" said Greg with a shrug. "It would normally be up to whoever's on the receiving end, to say who they wanted in the room."

"John can always be in the room, for anything," said Sherlock, quietly. 

Mycroft nodded with silent approval. John would be a vigilant witness, and a steadying presence. He was glad the man wanted to be.

"OK, then," said Greg, pleased to have agreement. "As for the rest, I'm obviously more than fine with aftercare. Pretty good at it, if I do say so myself. And I'd never leave anyone alone to stew, or abandon you halfway, or do it in anger. I'd never give you more than I thought you could take."

"We wouldn't ask you to do this if we thought that, Gregory."

"Ah, stop it, you’re giving me the warm and fuzzies here. You should have a safeword, in case you start to freak out, or if I miss something important. I'm only human, after all. Not a genius."

Mycroft considered that to be an eminently sensible idea.

"We have never actually used one before. Being basically telepathic renders a safeword superfluous. But I take your point and I concur."

Sherlock sat up with interest now the conversation had taken a less dreadful turn.

"Toast! Toast is my safeword,” he declared.

"Why toast?!" chuckled Greg.

Sherlock shrugged. "I like toast. Toast makes me feel safe. So I'll say toast."

John looked puzzled.

"Won't it put you off toast?"

"Nothing will put me off toast!" said Sherlock, as certain of this as he’d ever been about anything.

Greg turned to the elder Holmes.

"What about you, Mycie?"

"Erm... Don't laugh. Hepburn,” he said.

Greg snorted his amusement. "As in Audrey?"

"No! As in Katherine!” exclaimed Mycroft, as though this were obvious. “Screen goddess. A Queen amongst lesser mortals. Audrey is merely a girl in comparison."

John collapsed into immature giggles.

"You're camper than a row of tents, you."

Mycroft tossed his head.

"How very dare you," he said, pursing his lips and placing a well-manicured hand to his chest.

His lovers fell about, caught off guard by the sight of Mycroft Holmes going for laughs. He sipped his wine with a small, pleased smile. He so rarely had the chance to play up, and it felt rather wonderful to have an audience for his own minor forays into attention-seeking. Sherlock looked across at him with a broad grin, offering his approval at the courage it took for his brother to be fully himself in front of others. 

Greg gave John a piercing look.

"And you, Johnnyboy. Safeword. For playtime. In case you want to get a bit nasty…"

John balked.

"I'm not picking a stupid word! I'd feel a right nance shouting Tottenham or something in the middle of...whatever we'd be in the middle of."

Greg rolled his eyes.

"Traffic light system, then. Red for 'stop, I've reached my limit'. Yellow if you're teetering on the edge and need slowing down. Green if I ask and you're OK. All of us should use that."

"What about if our mouths are too full to speak?" said Sherlock, cheekily. Greg look at him with heat.

"Well, then, young man… Non-verbal safe signals. If that pretty gob of yours is in use, I'll tell you what to do before we start. Get you to hold something and drop it, or hold fingers up, or move a certain way. All you have to do is listen to me, lad. Won’t steer you wrong, will I?"

Sherlock raised a saucy eyebrow and the temperature in the room seemed to ratchet up a notch.

“One more thing, Mycie, darl,” said Greg, seriously, doing his best to get through this before he got too distracted by lust. Mycroft caught the change of tone and tilted his head in mute enquiry.

“I won’t have any interference off you.”

“Oh, no, Gregory, I wouldn’t dream of…”

“I mean it,” said Greg, firmly. “It’s a deal-breaker. You hand your brother’s discipline over to me, and I’ll take care of it. When he pisses me off, or dicks John about, or breaks any of the rules, he’s mine. Stuff between the two of you is not for me to interfere with, unless you delegate or ask for my intervention, or if I think things are getting out of control. I want a veto. You still want to keep your old arrangement, I take it?”

“Yes,” said Sherlock, instantly and unashamedly.

Mycroft looked at his brother with gratitude.

Greg nodded.

“Good. So my first direct order is this - Mycroft, you're banned from doing anything more creative than smacking your brother's bum when he's been naughty, and you're only permitted to smack his bum if it's something you both need to deal with together. You tell me before it happens. But implements are outright banned. Even if you're tempted - which I can imagine you might be given the way he behaves - or if he tries to pressure you into it. It's out of your jurisdiction now, right? On pain of...well, pain."

Mycroft almost sighed with relief at a formal command he was eager to obey. A tiny weight of responsibility lifted from his shoulders. Sherlock looked delighted, for selfish and altruistic reasons alike. 

Mycroft paused as he thought of something. "Erm, I do sometimes use my slipper on him if I am seriously displeased. That doesn't bother me as much. It's practically nursery discipline for him."

"It bothers me! Ban him, Greg!" demanded Sherlock, horrified.

Greg chuckled. "Hmm. No. OK. Slipper's fair game, if it works for you. Might have a go with it myself."

He ignored the huffing and scowling being directed at him from certain quarters, and pushed on, keen to make one last very important point.

"Last thing, love," he said, pointing towards Mycroft. "Whatever I decide about his discipline, or yours, is set in stone. I won’t share the top spot, know what I mean? My word is law. It’s a done deal, unless you safeword. No arguments. No trying to mitigate or add to a punishment, no trying to take over, and no standing in my way. I’ll always hear a reasonable argument before we start, but if either of you try to sway my hand or manipulate me, you’ll both get your arses warmed. Not messing around. Got it?”

Mycroft swallowed hard, relieved to hear such a clear message, but almost surprised by the forcefulness of Gregory’s tone. The reality of his new lover's role hit home rather more realistically than perhaps it had last night. He felt a minor flush of guilt at having underestimated the man.

“Yes, Gregory. Of course. I won’t interfere with your decisions. I, we, grant you the right of final say. Though I hope…,” he said, tentatively.

Greg looked at him knowingly. “Oi. Am I saying ‘and we’ll never discuss this again?’”

“No.”

“Nope. But I expect to be obeyed, I expect to be respected, and I don’t expect any sudden changing of goalposts. They only way it works for me is if you’re both under my care, and you both treat me like I matter. Topping, dominance, authority, whatever you want to call it - it don’t work for me if you only pretend to give up power. You have to really do it, even in play. I’ll always give it back to you, I swear. I’m including John in that too, but I won’t push the discipline scenario there, unless he consents.”

John squirmed.

“Yeah, er… Not so sure about that one, mate. I’m all for play, but… Bloody power mad, you!”

Greg tilted his head, seriously considering what John had obviously meant as a joke.

“No, I’m not. I just know me place in the food chain. S’what I’m best at. Giving orders. A way of being needed, I suppose. And I need my share of aftercare too. I'm a cuddly sod, as you may have gathered. Also need you to call me out if I'm being a grumpy arsehole, or you think I'm going over the top. Just talk to me and we'll work it out. I like being the bloke you come to for everything and anything. Like to feel useful,” he said, with a rather charmingly self-deprecating smile.

John leaned across and patted his knee affectionately.

“Yeah, you’re a butch alpha male, but you wield power responsibly and you just want to be loved, we get it,” he said, kindly. "Not a problem, mate."

Greg leaned over and the Holmes brothers watched their lovers share a languid kiss.

“Alpha male,” mused Greg, when he broke away. “Guilty as charged. Not that I won’t happily take a solid fucking from any one of you. Happy to top from the bottom too. Tell you just how I like it.”

He winked and the Holmeses gaped at him, taken aback by how rapidly their cocks got hard at the mere suggestion.

"Where do I fit in, then, on the sliding scale?" wondered John aloud. "I mean, I get off on making those lanky posh sods over there go all weak at the knees. But sometimes I do fancy having me knees weakened. I mean, when me and you were having it off the first time round, that was bloody fantastic. Not out of the realms of possibility I could agree to...rules and consequences outside of the bedroom as well. Within reason."

Greg grinned. "You're switchier than me, love."

John frowned. “Switchier. Yeah.”

“It’s a polite way of saying you’re a nympho, Watson,” Sherlock intervened helpfully. “You’ll do anything on any part of the power scale, as long as you can get your rocks off and please someone else in the process. What? It’s a compliment!”

It really was.

“I’m not a nympho, I'm a sexual pragmatist, thank you! Anyway, it takes one to know one - you're the one who wanted a bloody foursome fuckfest in the first place. Why am I berating you for that?!” exclaimed John with confused indignation. Sherlock stuck his tongue out at him with glee.

"Sexual pragmatist. I approve of that,” chuckled Mycroft. “Pithy and accurate. In some ways I believe I share your affliction, John, dear. Though baby brother is currently the sole beneficiary of my dominant side, I do like to have my cake and eat it too - and Sherlock, if you say one word I will spank you again doubly hard and for twice as long."

Sherlock wisely bit back the very witty cake comment he had planned and folded his arms with a wounded innocence that fooled no-one.

Mycroft glared and let it slide.

"Anyway... Gregory. I believe we have covered our terms and conditions. And of course we intend to give you the power you need to make this mutually enjoyable and mutually satisfying, sexually or otherwise. We aren't in this to pretend. We want the real thing. Trust us to give you what you need, hm? What say you?”

He held out his hand, but palm down as though offering it to be kissed.

Greg got up and came to kneel before the elder Holmes. He took his hand and pressed his lips ardently to the smooth, white knuckles. Beside him, Sherlock looked at Greg through his lashes, holding his own hand out to be kissed. Greg couldn’t escape the sudden notion of himself as a medieval knight pledging allegiance, albeit to two rather submissive Princes.  

“Lovely lads. I’ll do my best for you, I promise. And you Johnnyboy. Got your back, and your arse too. Whatever you want. You’re the poor bastard who has to put up with this nonsense on all sides. Shake on it.”

"Shake on it? Rather shag on it," said John, smoothly, putting his glass down. “Nympho that I am.” 

"Know what I'd like?" asked Greg, rhetorically.

John smirked. He had a funny feeling it was what he’d like too.

"Surprise me."

Greg looked from one panting Holmes boy to the next as he gripped their hands in his own.

His voice sunk to a gravelly tone. "To see a little bit of brotherly love, that's what I'd like.”

"Me too," said John, sincerely.

Greg stared at him.

"Eh? But you must have seen it already?!"

"Nope. I've seen pretty much everything but buggery."

"John, really!” admonished Mycroft while Sherlock giggled and continued to flirt wordlessly with Lestrade. “There's no need to be graphic." 

"Er, reckon there is a need to be graphic,” corrected John. “We've been messing around for a while, but you haven't let me watch that. Just the two of you."

Mycroft frowned. John was quite correct, and he hoped very much it hadn’t been interpreted as a deliberate exclusion.

"No. It hasn't quite worked out that way, has it? I’m afraid we have been remiss.”

His ‘going to ground’ act, before he had returned to his senses in order to properly woo Gregory, and his sensitivity about allowing John and Lock their honeymoon period, had perhaps left John feeling a little neglected. And now he thought of it, he and Lock hadn’t had a great deal of one on one time lately, preoccupied as they were with seducing their new playmates.

Sherlock gave his brother a thoughtful look, obviously sharing the sentiment.

Greg regarded them curiously.

"When did you two even start...? Or would I rather not know?"

Mycroft smiled with an air of happy, and rather naughty, nostalgia.

"He was 17, when we...properly did the deed. I was 24. Rather late for me, I suppose. But, oh, so worth the wait. He had nagged me for years until I finally gave in."

Sherlock snorted loudly.

"He was horridly stubborn. Wouldn't touch me for ages! Rotten brother. Made me wait under some spurious pretext that I ‘wasn’t ready’, when I’d been cataloguing his and my own sexual responses for absolutely years!"

Mycroft looked indignant.

"I did make you wait, yes. Just because one is an expert in theory doesn’t mean you’re ready to become one in practice! Though admittedly your research was thorough. Lock kept an observation journal of my appalling adolescence. He became quite the expert in me, despite my vociferous protestations.”

Sherlock looked like the delighted ten-year-old he had been when he’d first committed himself to full-time Mycroft Studies.

“I used to watch while he was masturbating and doing all sorts of baroque things to himself. I’d hide in his room and spring out to surprise him.”

“Yes, and always with a notebook and pencil!”

“All highly interesting,” mused Sherlock, seeing it all in his Mind Palace. “I drew diagrams of his various positions, tensile strength of his grip, calculations of trajectories... Recorded facial expressions, sounds, timings… I made helpful suggestions, once I understood the mechanics and biological impulses at play. He used to use Uncle Rudy’s filthy lithographs for inspiration and then had the audacity to hide them from me! And he used to beat himself on the bare bottom with a wooden ruler, _and_ he once put half a cucumber - ”

John had dissolved into helplessness again, and held up his half-empty wine glass in apology as he tried to compose himself. Greg bit the inside of his cheek, though the amusement of the tale had done nothing to dampen his hard-on.

Mycroft flushed red to the roots of his hair.

“Lock, please! You see what I have to put up with?! Permanent humiliation. Not a moment of privacy. He always was a rotten little sneak. He couldn’t be stopped! I don’t think the fact I used to spank him for snooping did anything but make it worse…,” he said, shaking his head doubtfully. It was all his own fault, really.

Sherlock looked baffled. “Of course it didn’t! It was a wonderful incentive. Over Mycie’s knee, before I even knew why I liked it. Horrid, obviously. But scrummy.”

Greg chuckled, wondering why he didn’t feel more appalled. John seemed entirely unfazed.

“The nagging started when he was 14,” explained Mycroft, “Once his own ghastly pubescence took firm hold, so to speak.”

“Oh, and it _was_ ghastly too!” shuddered Sherlock, recalling all too vividly the emotional upheavals and unquenchable physical cravings of youth.

“He was moody, he was volatile, he was constantly stiff,” explained Mycroft, as though present company hadn’t already intuited as much.

“So nothing’s changed, then?” said John, cheerfully.

Sherlock shook his head with equal good humour.

“Nope.”

“And...?” enquired Greg, pushing for a dirty anecdote.

Sherlock smirked.

“I made certain my brother was left in no doubt as to my intentions.”

Mycroft put a hand to his head.

“Oh, God, the torment! Once he hit 14, that was it. He used to sneak into my bed just to pleasure himself in positions you would not believe were possible! And… He used to leave his filthy tissues under my pillow, and in the pockets of my suit jackets, in my shoes, and sometimes as bookmarks!”

Sherlock feigned a huff. “They were love letters, Mycie!”

“Yes, I know they were, dearest. I kept them for as long as I was able. Then it just became…unhygienic.”

John was shaking his head and gesturing to an imaginary camera as was his usual habit when things got a bit much.

“Making me jealous I never had a brother now…,” he muttered.

Mycroft suddenly thought of other outrages which had been committed and seemed important to share.

“He drew absolutely disgusting illustrations in the margins of all my books. Sheer vandalism! He used to cut holes in his trouser pockets and indulge his frankly excessive onanistic tendencies during family dinners so only I’d know what he was up to. Rubbing his foot on me under the table… He used to get in the bath with me ‘to save water’ – yes, quite the little environmentalist - and he was naked literally every time we were alone. It was like clothes melted off him! And worst, worst of all, he used to come up to me when I was reading, or listening to music, or just passing by in the corridor, and lean in to my ear and make little…breathy moaning noises. And say things like…”

Mycroft struggled to articulate the words. Sherlock helped him out.

“Want to lick your cock up and down, brother…,” he whispered, naughtily, delighting in the shiver that seemed to run through their lovers at the statement, and at the way Mycroft compressed his lips and closed his eyes in arousal for a brief second, just like he used to.

Greg coughed and tried to control himself. "Did you…let him?” he asked Mycroft, afraid that if he looked at Sherlock again he’d just whip it out and start wanking.

“No. Not until he turned 16. That was a birthday present.”

Mycroft noted with pleasure the glazed look in Gregory’s eye, and the way John didn’t seem to be able to get comfortable in his seat.

“But you grew up sort of being 'together'...?"

"I know it must still be difficult to comprehend, Gregory. I can't explain it other than..."

Greg twinkled at him. "Destiny, yeah?"

"Nothing so mystical,” said Mycroft, softly. He looked at his brother as he’d been looking at him all their lives. “Just inevitability. We were simply in love and as one. By the time he was 14 we were just...not separable. In any way. There were occasions when we’d explore ourselves, touch ourselves, lying side by side, and that progressed to touching each other… Which felt like merely an extension of touching ourselves. What one feels, the other feels, if we concentrate very hard. Odd. But natural enough for us. We never had secrets from each other. Not possible, when you know someone as well as you know yourself, perhaps even better. I drew the line at anything further for a time, to protect both of us. But we wanted each other. We _are_ each other, body and soul.”

John and Greg seemed transfixed. Lock smiled at them, feeling relieved and grateful to be able to share the story of their lives so freely, without petty judgement.

“All that was different about us was that Mycie was a teeny tiny bit more repressed - though he’d gone through his Oscar Wilde phase already. That’s when the truly hideous waistcoats started making an appearance. And I was prone to higher highs and lower lows, if you can imagine that. And I was so fucking _bored!_ Just got worse when he left home at 22 and went to work for the stupid stupid government - which I still haven’t forgiven him for!” he exclaimed, only half-seriously.

“Didn’t go to university first, Myc?” asked John.

Mycroft seemed mildly self-conscious.

“Ah. No. Nor school. What would have been the point? Mummy kept us close. I’d completed three PhDs from home, with minimal supervision. A Cambridge don with a dubious past put in a word for me with MI6. I was headhunted, of course. Far better for the Service that I remain almost entirely unknown.”

“Stupid Service!” huffed Lock, recalling his past (and only slightly present) hatred of his brother’s vocation.

Mycroft reached across to take his hand.

“We kept in constant communication – my ‘love letters’ came by post, and I, er, sent rather a lot of underwear through the Royal Mail for a time. Then he came to stay with me when he was 16,” he explained. “Mostly at Mummy’s insistence. He’d become increasingly monstrous to her in a thinly-veiled attempt to be sent away. We lived in London together thereafter, and it was all I could do not to...”

Sherlock beamed with pride at a job well done.

“I made it my mission to be the most horrid pricktease.”

Mycroft grimaced at the phrasing.

"Yes, and he has been succeeding in that mission ever since, the awful boy. I caved in eventually. But even 17 was under the age of consent at the time. How quickly one forgets it used to be 21. Only lowered to 18 in 1994, then 16 as recently as the year 2000. And before that, completely illegal."

"We don’t need a politics lesson, thank you! And what we do is still completely illegal! Which just goes to show how stupidly arbitrary the whole Goldfish moral value system is,” declared Sherlock certainly.

Mycroft shrugged. "For normal people it's rather essential."

"But we're not normal people. We're deviants, brother, or had you forgotten?"

"To deviants and the perverts who love them," chimed John, toasting them respectfully, and slightly tipsily.

Greg raised his own glass in agreement.

“Hear hear.”

"Thank you, my dears,” said Mycroft, pleasantly. “Exceptions must be made for extravagant deviants and perverts. I’ve always thought so."

"Oh, exceptions bloody _are_ made, believe me," chuckled John.

Greg sat back, chocolatey eyes dancing with mirth and erotic fascination.

"So you popped each other's cherries. All horny and in love. Aw. Sweet lads.”

"He was practically frigid until I got hold of him,” said Sherlock, matter-of-factly. “And he didn't let me do him up the bum until I was 18!"

Mycroft slapped his brother’s thigh in retribution - mostly for the use of hideous slang.

"Lock, refrain from speaking at once!"

Sherlock fended him off gleefully with clawed hands, scratching like a cat to avoid sharp, prodding fingers.

"Well, you didn't! It was another birthday present. Mycie lost his bum virginity to me when he was 25! What a Victorian prude you were!"

"Sherlock Holmes!" Mycroft roared, trying to pinch his brother’s thigh to teach him a lesson. “I was _not,_ and anyway that is a false characterisation of the Victorians, they were the most salacious society in recent history – their pornography is utterly obscene!”

Sherlock ignored his brother’s lecture on nineteenth century sexuality and persisted.

"He couldn't get enough of it after that. Night and day, all he wanted was to shove his cock in me or beg me to shove mine in him. Hardly got any work done at all. Honestly, gents, ask yourself how he could bear to wait?! Look at me!"

He howled as Mycroft landed a particularly satisfying pinch to his inner thigh.

“Show us,” husked Greg, suddenly deadly serious. They stopped fighting instantly, and sort of collapsed against each other, Sherlock half on top of his brother.

Mycroft smoothed his hair down and cleared his throat, though he made no effort to extract himself from the awkward embrace.

"Hm. Yes. Lock, my precious thing - are you up for taking requests?"

Sherlock pecked his brother on the nose and clicked his fingers triumphantly.

"Lightbulb!"

Mycroft chuckled.

"Mm. With you, brother mine,” he said, deeply, and pressed his lips against him. They snogged passionately, congratulating themselves for having thought of something brilliant.

"What lightbulb?” said John, bouncing, desperate to be told he could get his kit off and start fucking. “A dirty idea?"

"How about... we re-enact our first time together for you?” proposed Mycroft, licking his brother’s taste from his lips.

“And then you re-enact yours," finished Sherlock, in a low, seductive tone, gazing at them with dilated eyes.

"Bloody hell,” groaned Greg, downing the rest of his wine, mainly to stop himself coming in his pants.

"We didn't get to watch you the first time, and we _so_ wanted to!” said Sherlock, sitting up with a slight whine, just in case they were going to be difficult about it. “Go on, _please_. Just pretend for us."

“Baby brother never says please unless he really and truly wants something…,” said Mycroft, mischievously, running a seductive hand through his brother’s curls. Sherlock leaned into the touch with sinuous grace and all but purred. “One must never refuse Lockie when he’s being a polite boy. It’s so very rare.”

John wrinkled his nose a bit dubiously.

"Oh, but…embarrassing roleplay? I think I’m rubbish at it, to be honest."

"No, not embarrassing roleplay,” corrected Sherlock, slightly irritably. “Just nice, sexy roleplay. Can't you even play yourself, Watson? Where is your imagination?!"

John looked mildly offended.

"Nagging, always nagging. Anything for a bit of peace. Didn’t realise fucking you all was gonna require a bloody Equity card!"

Greg adjusted himself in his jeans somewhat painfully.

“All of you shut up and get upstairs. I want Holmes action, I want to get off, and I want to do it in my Mycie’s lovely bedroom.”

“It’s dreary, Greg,” scoffed Sherlock, nibbling his brother’s eartip. “The only lovely thing in it is me.”

They rose and made for the stairs in haste.

“Less of your lip, my lad,” said Greg, smacking Lock’s arse on the way out. “Remember, I can have you over my knee any time I want now.”

Sherlock looked back at him with obvious hope underlying his haughty sneer.    

“It’ll never happen, Lestrade. I’ll never give you the satisfaction... What? Why is that so amusing, Mycroft?!”

They finally entered the master bedroom. Greg whistled appreciatively at the biggest bed in the most comfortable room he’d ever seen in his life.

Three pairs of eyes turned instinctively towards him, awaiting instruction. He smiled inwardly. That was more like it.

“Now... I want to see you two fuck each other like it was your first time,” he husked. “As much as you can remember. Show me and Johnny what you do with each other, you filthy little boys.”

“Oh, Gregory,” sighed Mycroft, slinking over to the bed with an indulgent air. “You do realise we have eidetic memories?”

Sherlock giggled as he flung himself on the mattress, and began enthusiastically undoing his shirt and trousers.

“We can give you the whole script, Lestrade. Down to every last gasp and groan. We can even make it last for the exact same amount of time.”

Mycroft coughed and started to undress himself.

“Yes, though I may edit that and try to last a little longer...”

“Thanks, Mycie. I thought it was quite flattering, but I know what you mean. I came twice, and I can do that again easily!”

“Think I need a sit down,” said John, a bit weakly.

“Oi, you two." Greg seized the command he'd been given, feeling there was no time like the present to start a new job. “Not so bloody fast with the nudity. Let me and Johnnyboy take care of that, if he can still stand up. I’m going to have Mycie’s top half, and Lock’s bottom half. Watson, you can do vice versa, all right?”

John sprang to his feet with a burst of energy and saluted cheekily.

“Suits me. You're the boss, mate."

They pounced upon the giggling Holmeses to prepare them for their scene, and settled in for a second night of four-way deviance and debauchery.

_(To be continued...a-bloody-gain)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love you if you're reading, I love you more if you're enjoying it, I will marry you if you leave me a comment to say so. :) xxx


	9. The First Time first time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a lot of voyeuristic Holmesex, really. The re-enactment of the brothers' first time, with added observers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mylock smut and love dedicated to LadyGlinda for gifting me stories and unwarranted praise. With a section especially prompted by queenellis. Hope this satisfies! x

Mycroft was sitting up in his bed, propped against the headboard, reading a volume of 17th century satirical verse. He was naked, but his bottom half was concealed under the duvet. He was apparently unperturbed by the intense scrutiny he was being subjected to by two very interested observers. It was almost as though they weren’t there.

Greg sat in a padded armchair on the far side of the bed with John in his lap, both also fully naked. Not a word had been spoken since they’d all undressed. Mycroft had pedantically insisted that in ‘real life’ he had been wearing his pyjamas, but no-one had the will to re-dress him. Not with so much soft, lightly-haired flesh on display.

Both Greg and John were writhing slightly against each other as they waited for some unspecified action to begin. They did not have to wait long.

The door to the bedroom creaked open, and Sherlock padded in. He had shaken his hair out a little, the only nod towards costuming himself. Otherwise, he was completely naked. Yet he seemed different somehow. Pulsating with unspent energy. Wide-eyed, but with a set, determined mouth. He seemed a little less self-assured than usual; a little vulnerable beneath an exterior which was cockier and haughtier than ever. Any adult man could plainly see he was over-playing his hand, and that he wore his entire heart on his sleeve. His arms hung loosely by his sides, his head was slightly ducked, though his eyes were bright with defiance. His body was casually postured with a slight hunching of the shoulders that spoke of lackadaisical carelessness and easily-wounded pride. In short, he seemed about 17 - riddled with that potent blend of crippling insecurity and blazing confidence which was instantly recognisable to anyone who had ever been a teenager.

Mycroft looked up as his brother entered, his natural frown a little lighter than was customary. He too seemed a jot less careworn, a mite less burdened by life. His hair had been pulled by anxious fingers over his forehead, where it rioted into curls, and his ever-watchful eyes opened wide onto the world, observing every new thing there was to be seen. The sight of Sherlock in the nude did not appear to be a new sight.

“Mycie,” husked Sherlock.

“Are you all right, dear?”

Sherlock frowned and shook his head. His mouth remained closed.

Mycroft swallowed and pretended to glance distractedly at his book.

“Do you… Can I help you?”

His question met with the same reaction. Sherlock hovered by the door.

“I shall take that as a no. Are you sleeping here tonight, or your room? Lock?”

Sherlock didn’t answer.

Mycroft seemed a tad baffled, perhaps even hurt by the silence.

“All right. Goodnight, then…,” he ventured, uncertainly.

Sherlock stepped forward, his tongue flicking momentarily out to his lower lip. His face fell into a soft, yearning look.

“No, brother,” he intoned dolorously. “It won’t be a good night.”

Mycroft seemed to hold his breath, and Greg and John did likewise, mesmerised by the potency of the moment. Not the wild and frantic beginning they’d been expecting. It was as though they’d opened a portal into the past, and were seeing the Holmes boys at their most private, and most serious. The electric connection between them was palpable, and so was the sincerity of their bygone youth.

Sherlock walked further into the room.

“It will be a lonely night,” he said. “Another one. And then another, and another. Until you believe me.”

Mycroft blinked, then closed his eyes, steeling himself for some kind of confrontation, or perhaps in reluctance at having to say something unpopular. But he said nothing.

Sherlock loped to the bed. The effect was a little clumsier than his usual effortless grace – less a slinky feline, more a fawn.

“I want you,” he said, ardently. “I love you. What we do together is incredible. But it’s not enough anymore. Not enough to capture it properly, to make it…real. I can’t wait a minute longer. Believe me, Mycroft.”

Mycroft discarded the book and sat further up, a stricken look on his face. He held a hand out to his brother with a soft expression.

“I… I do believe you, beautiful boy. Come here to me.”

Sherlock took his hand and let himself be pulled forward. Rather than sit on the side of the bed, he hopped up to straddle his brother’s legs, which were still concealed under the duvet.

“Don’t deny me. I know myself and I know my own mind,” teenage Lock said, in a low, fervent tone. “I have observed and listened, and spoken and learned, out there in the horrid world. No-one and nothing is going to change how I feel about you, Mycie. You know it too. What are we waiting for? What are  _you_ waiting for? For more time to pass in which I won’t change my mind? We’ve known this was right for years.”

John turned to Greg wonderingly, a smile playing about his lips. Sherlock in full young Lord Byron phase. Quite a sight. They were bowled over by it.

Mycroft ran a hand softly across his brother’s high cheek. Sherlock’s eyes closed blissfully as he was caressed, and he leaned into the touch.

“Why now? Why tonight?” asked Mycroft, a tiny challenge in the question. Checking his evidence – as methodical and rational and careful with his brother as he ever was, and ever would be.

Sherlock pressed his forehead to his brother’s.

“If not now, when!? And… A man propositioned me in town today,” he said, almost cringing at having to say it.

Mycroft flinched and tensed.

“What?”

 Greg and John saw the shock, the jealousy, the dismay, and the concern all at once. And then the self-recrimination, the dawning realisation that of course Sherlock was going to be propositioned. Other people did observe some things. They observed sex, and lithe, doe-eyed youths - and they were out for what they could get from them.

“You heard,” said Sherlock, disgusted by the memory. “I was walking around Soho, deducing, distracting myself. Went into a sex shop, but just to look! At toys and things, for us... A man asked me if I wanted to come back to his place for, and I quote, “a good hard fuck”. He called me a pretty boy, and asked if I was looking for a daddy to take care of me. He was wearing a very nice suit. Obviously thought he could afford me. Don’t look at me like that – do you think I was tempted, even for a second? It made me feel sick! I bolted. The idea that anyone could think of me in that way but you! I felt dirty just having his eyes on me!”

Mycroft sighed and shook his head, pained by the admission. “God almighty… You’re not to go to those places anymore, not even in the day. I know it’s boring for you while I’m at work, but we’ll find something for you to do. I don’t want you out on the streets, and I don't want you in Soho sex shops! You're underage! I'm sure it was a lovely thought, but any toys you require shall be ordered anonymously!”

Sherlock pouted gloomily. “Don’t be angry with me.”

“I’m not, dearest. I only want you to be safe.”

“I only want you, Mycie. Take me properly. Please!” Lock was beginning to bubble over with desperation. He came up higher onto his knees and held his brother’s face between his hands.

“I need you now.”

“Now…” Mycroft breathed the word shakily. It wasn’t a question, but it was answered nonetheless.

“Yes. It’s now,” urged Sherlock. “I feel your ache. When we play, when you stop it going further. I feel your wanting. Perhaps I wasn’t ready before. But don’t let me be a boy in your eyes forever. Let me be a man now too.”

He fell forwards and Mycroft gathered him into his arms. They kissed urgently, passionately, and panted heavily into each other’s mouths.

“Brother...” rumbled Mycroft, voice cracking slightly under the effort of speech. He clasped him tightly. "Yes."

Sherlock looked up at him with shock, checking that he’d heard correctly. “Yes?!”

Mycroft smirked, breaking the cathedral-like atmosphere with a trademark raised eyebrow.

“Mm. You speak so prettily when you’re not nagging,” he teased, tweaking one of his brother’s pink nipples to elicit a little gasp. “And it is always pointless to argue with you when you’re right. I can’t wait any longer either. You’re mine, Sherlock, and I’m yours. Man and boy, and always. Let me give you something to assuage your frightful curiosity, and stop you running wild into the fleshpots of London, hm?”

Sherlock giggled and shivered with pleasure at the possessiveness in his brother’s tone, and the piercingly seductive look in those icy grey eyes.

“Yes. Oh, yes, yes!”

He laughed and flung his arms around Mycroft’s neck. They clutched at each other, licking, capturing lips between teeth as they softly moaned out their desire.

Sherlock pulled away and stared at his handsome, kiss-stained brother, with his rumpled curling hair, his fine-boned features and the telltale flush of lust pinkening his pale, dappled skin. The object of fantasy and the source of so much bodily pleasure. But the biggest turn-on of all, at any age – Mycroft’s mind. Perfect for Sherlock in his teens and his 20s, his 30s and onwards. Neither of them had ever wavered. Mutuality was all they knew.

Slowly and intently Lock began to stroke his own ragingly hard prick with a firm hand, leaning back to better display himself. His brother regarded him with utter voraciousness.

Sherlock cocked a little look over his shoulder at the two spectators, and winked at them.

“Aren’t we fantastic?” he said with a smirk.

“Don’t break the fourth wall, Lock,” chided Mycroft, drily, making the audience snort. “Attention to detail, please…”

Sherlock grinned and turned back towards him, snapping back into his earnest younger self.

“Been thinking about you all day, Mycie. Makes me so hard, but I haven’t touched myself once. Saving it all for you,” he said, between little gasps and groans.

Mycroft moaned in his throat. “No touching all day? Poor darling. Must have been so tempting…”

He reached out a hand to take over. Sherlock’s eyes fluttered closed in rapture as he was masturbated by his brother’s cool palm. Droplets of fluid leaked out of his slit at the stimulation.

Mycroft swiftly pushed back the bedclothes and Sherlock adjusted position to straddle his brother’s bare legs, staring hungrily at his long prick - swollen and glistening with moisture, twitching against his soft stomach.

Sherlock leaned down to gaze at it hungrily, then gripped it at the base and held it upwards, tantalisingly close to his mouth.

“You were thinking about me too. This has been up all day, hasn’t it, my very big brother?” he grinned saucily.

“It’s always in that state, because I am always thinking about you,” declared Mycroft, running his hands through Sherlock’s unruly hair and gripping it hard, holding him mere centimetres away from the crown. Sherlock whined ecstatically at the sensation, and gazed almost cross-eyed at his brother’s erection.

When Mycroft spoke again it was in a gravelly, sex-roughened tone.

“I should tie you to my desk so you’d never be out of my sight. My career prospects would suffer, but I would be a happy man.”

He pushed his hips upwards because he just couldn’t help himself.

Sherlock chuckled, delighted at the image and at the sentiment. His tongue flicked out and Mycroft watched with dilated eyes as he went down on him with agonising slowness.

They moaned together as Sherlock suckled, cheeks hollowing, making his delicate bone structure stand out even more prominently.

Mycroft’s gaze flicked towards their lovers. His eyes rolled back in his head at the dual sensation of Lock’s mouth, and the sight of Greg biting down on John’s neck. The silver-haired brute was massaging John’s thick cock in his hand, and thrusting very slightly beneath him to rub himself between John’s taut thighs. Both men stared back at him with undisguised lust.

Moans and groans filled the room, until it became too much for Mycroft.

“Stop…!”

Sherlock pulled up and off with a slurp and a smug giggle.

Mycroft gazed down at him.

“Why don’t you show me what you wanted to do while I wasn’t here?” he whispered, confidentially.

Sherlock grinned with filthy intent, then rolled over to lie on his back and spread his legs in a wanton display. He pulled at his cock and brought his knees up to reveal himself. Mycroft moved over him on all fours, his face caught halfway between a grin and a frown.

“Oh, you naughty boy… I mean, man, of course. My naughty young man.”

Sherlock snorted and blushed. He played with himself with both hands, fondling his balls, rubbing at his perineum as he teased the head of his prick.

“Shut up and get the lube,” he chuckled, all hints of nervousness gone.

Mycroft retrieved a tub of Vaseline from the bedside drawer and scooped some out onto his finger.

“Where do you want it, Lockie, hm? Here?”

He rubbed it up his brother’s length and Sherlock moaned louder as he massaged it into himself until he was slick and even more sensitive. Mycroft slapped his hand away and took over.

“More,” Sherlock gasped, and Mycroft scooped out another glob of lubricant with a teasing look on his face.

Sherlock raised his knees up, maintaining eye contact all the while. He brought a fingertip to his tightly puckered hole, circling it with light, tender movements.

“Here. Put it here,” he demanded, huskily.

Mycroft licked his lips and placed his finger to his brother’s pink, twitching opening. He rubbed and tickled at it until Sherlock whined and thrust his hips automatically. With a look of sudden intensity, Mycroft pressed the tip of his finger inside the tight passage, just up to his first knuckle.

“Oh, yesss…,” hissed Lock, throwing his head back when the whole finger penetrated him.

Greg gave a particularly loud groan at the sound and sight. John muttered obscenities to himself. They were doing everything in their power not to come too soon, but it was a challenge.

Mycroft had his forefinger firmly lodged inside his brother’s backside, and Lock was thrusting onto it blissfully while it wiggled around. His haughty features were stricken with the pleasure of it, and he was whining continually.

“You lovely creature," crooned Mycroft, with all the seductive charm at his disposal - so confident even as a 24-year-old virgin. But this was his brother he was dealing with. Of course he was confident. 

"Always so responsive. But this won’t be like me putting a finger up your bottom while you masturbate, Lock. Will it? Tell me what’s going to happen…”

Sherlock was part-mortified, part-horny beyond belief. “You’re going to… Put your cock in me.”

“Mm, yes, I am, but don't say it like that,” panted Mycroft, his face a mask of obscene intent as gentle care transformed into erotic control. “I am going to push my erect penis into you, and stretch your little hole open on me. I’m going to bugger you properly, like men do, until you cry out for me.”

“Ooh… More, please, more,” Sherlock begged, bracing his feet on the bed at this depraved onslaught.

Mycroft nodded, panting hard as he carefully pressed his middle finger in alongside the first with painstaking exactitude.

Sherlock squeaked and exhaled sharply.

“Oh, Lock… All right? Never had two before have you?”

“No!”

“Stop if you need to, darling. Oh, God, you’re tight...”

“Don’t stop, don’t!”

Mycroft pushed deeper, crooked his fingers and found the sweet spot he was searching for. Sherlock yowled and twisted his back off the bed.

“Imagine how good that special little button will feel when it’s my prick pressing it…”

“Fuck! Mycroft!”

“Three fingers now, sweetheart. Breathe. Sssh. I’ve got you.”

“Oh, Mycie! I can’t hold it, I’m going to spunk… Shit!”

Sherlock whimpered at the intense stimulation, then shuddered and came in a violent spurt against his hand and flat stomach. He looked mildly devastated and stared down at his cock as though it had betrayed him.

“Sorry! Couldn’t help it. Don’t stop!”

Mycroft looked transported and gently withdrew his hand. 

“Do try not to swear, but don’t be sorry, dear heart. It will make you looser when I enter you… If you still want me to.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

“Don’t you dare try and get out of it! Not enough. Can go again. Please!”

“Oh, to be 17 again," chuckled Greg, daring to speak, though he kept his voice low.

John snorted. “Or to relive it that convincingly.”

Sherlock broke his teenaged facade to laugh at that, then switched back into his former mindset. He scrambled up and threw himself at his brother, demanding more attention. They kissed, and Sherlock began to massage Mycroft's prick, using his own ejaculate to ease the going. 

"Covered in me. Want you covered in me..." 

"Yes," groaned Mycroft, brokenly. “Come up here."

Mycroft propped himself up against the headboard for support while Lock came up on his knees and straddled his lap. Mycroft took his brother's sharp, slight hipbones in his hands and manoeuvred his body until he hovered over his jutting member. 

"Sit down on me," ordered the elder Holmes. "You control it. Then it will be a bit like…a bit like you’re taking me too, won’t it? For our first time. My first time too.”

The plaintive request to be equally taken, equally possessed, touched Sherlock more than he could say. He kissed his brother's mouth in grateful thanks and perfect understanding. 

"I will. Though don't think you're getting away with being this lazy every time."

Mycroft snorted and slapped his brother's backside in reproof. 

Then a trembling Lock leaned forwards, hands on his brother's shoulders, and lowered himself.

Mycroft held his shaft firmly as his brother sank down upon it. Greg and John merely gawped as their youngest partner’s peachy arse spread wide and Mycroft's large penis rubbed up against his cleft, missing its target. But then the first-time lovers found the desired angle, and the very tip of the elder brother's cock - swollen and reddened with engorgement - disappeared into the younger's virgin bud. His entrance slowly yawned open and engulfed an inch of length, spreading wide to take the as-yet unfamiliar girth. 

Both Holmes brothers were breathing heavily in sync, focused solely on each other as they lost themselves in their shared past, to display it for their shared present.

“No going back," gasped Mycroft.

Sherlock shook his head solemnly.

“Don’t want to go back. Only forwards. Only with you."

He rocked until a little more of his brother penetrated his flesh. The movement set Mycroft alight.

“Oh! God… Hot, Lock, so very…!”

Sherlock's face screwed up at the intrusion. He stopped moving to allow himself to relax, and Mycroft supported his hips, holding him in place and whispering soothing sweet nothings to him. 

“Ow…”

“Dearest – “

“Don't tell me to stop. Want it so much.”

“I know, I know, wait, brother mine… Pull up. Let me help you."

Sherlock straightened his back and lifted off. With a thrilling glint in his eyes, Mycroft slid down between his brother's legs, moving further down the bed until he lay flat; then he curled his forearms around the slim thighs and pulled Sherlock down to sit on his face. 

"Oh, Mycie!" 

"Mmmmff...!" moaned Mycroft, as he ate his brother's arse from beneath him. Lock's face was a picture of shock - he clearly had not expected his usually prim and proper brother to behave quite so lasciviously, and it seemed to kick his pleasure up another impossible notch. 

He gripped the headboard and his thighs quivered with tension as his wet little pucker was kissed open, lovingly explored by his brother's wicked tongue. His cries of pleasure became high-pitched and frantic-sounding, and he bounced up and down a little, careful not to completely smother Mycroft - though the redhead hardly seemed to care if he died in the attempt. 

Mycroft licked him for minutes at a time, huffing and groaning, voice muffled by soft, musky flesh. When he pulled away, he was wild-eyed with need.

"More relaxed now?" he ground out, forcing himself to regain the power of verbal communication.

Sherlock stared at him with his mouth open, for once at a total loss for words. His brother's face was wet with spit and lube, his thin mouth smudged red where he had kissed him so eagerly and so intimately. Mycie perspired with effort, and sweat plastered damp curls to his forehead. He looked simply debauched. He was ravishing, and Lock was ravished.

Sherlock grabbed him and they hastily resumed their former position, with Mycroft sitting up, ready to be ridden upon. Lock met his mouth in a hurried, desperate snog, tasting his own body on the swollen lips.

"Driving me mad!" he gasped, still rather stupefied.

"Been driving me mad for years," returned Mycroft, as his brother began lowering himself down onto his erection once again. He went faster this time, and it was easier. 

“Can’t believe we’re doing this…," whispered Lock, hotly, as he pushed his bottom lower.

Mycroft raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Can't you indeed?"

"Yeah, I can." 

He giggled, then bit his lip in concentration and filled himself to the hilt. He keened like an animal, and arched his sinuous back while he clung to his brother’s upper arms, rocking his hips back and forth to take him deeper. 

Mycroft’s face was frozen into a permanent look of outrageous pleasure. His throbbing prick was squeezed and engulfed in hot velvet tightness.

"Move!"

Sherlock moved. He pulled up and pushed down, canting his bum forwards and backwards, experimenting with all the ways he could make them both feel good. Although 'good' was simply not adequate. Any word in their vocabulary paled into non-description at the ecstatic rightness of joining their bodies for the first time. 

They writhed together, groaning beyond language, urging each other on as they consummated their very forbidden, very extraordinary love. 

Greg and John had ceased playing with each other, and stared at them agog. It seemed like something that should be paid full attention to. There would be mental images to recall later. Forever. 

Sherlock giggled suddenly and became playful as he found a new rhythm to delight them. 

"Bouncy!" 

"Yes, dear. Oh! Aren't you...a bouncy...boy!" 

Their noise and movement built to a crescendo, until it seemed like neither man could hold out any longer. It looked to be all over.

"And...at this point...," panted Sherlock, turning his head to the side, without stopping his bouncing. "Mycie came."

Mycroft nodded, his lips compressed into a stoic line as he attempted to prevent a repeat performance. "Yes...," he practically squeaked, nodding frantically.  

Sherlock kept pace, testing his resolve.

"Really hard. And. Ooof. Loudly! But..."

"But I'm going to - oh, Lock - do better this time! Ah! Cease and desist!"

Sherlock slowed and then stilled, and pulled completely off, causing them both to whimper. Mycroft gripped his leaking cock at the base to stop himself spending over his stomach.

Lock grinned cheekily and turned himself around, bending low onto his forearms. He offered himself to his brother on all fours, so that he faced their stunned lovers. 

"Go on, Mycie. Let's re-do this bit for our boyfriends."

Mycroft moved into position behind him, eyes flashing with need.

"Oh, I'll re-do it, you little erotic menace!”

"You can do it even harder this time... I won't tell Mummy..."

Mycroft issued a stinging spank to his impertinent brother's wobbling rump.

"Don't! That word is off limits in the bedroom!"

"What, harder?"

"I'll give you harder. You've regressed after all these years, you do know that, don't you? Why you couldn't stay an earnest, Romantic little slip of a thing I don't know. Now, be quiet and stop hogging the limelight."

"You've become... Well, no, you've barely changed. You were middle-aged in your 20s and you still are. Now shut up and fuck me, and don't tell me off for swearing!"

Mycroft smirked fondly behind his back, and winked at their lovers as he sank himself back inside, in one long slide. Sherlock's head shot up and back, and he arched as he bore down to take his brother's hardness with well-practiced ease. All nerves gone, all youthful trepidation vanished. In its place, only poise in the way their bodies moved completely harmoniously; only mutual self-assurance and casual certainties between them. No need for overstatement, no need even for romance as their body temperatures rose and their flesh slid together. 

“Harder, harder. Oh! Mycie, deflower me harder!" Sherlock’s hysterical giggles were cut off by his own sincere ragged moans.

Mycroft's expression transformed into a determined, almost vicious mask as he redoubled his efforts. 

“Filthy boy! How’s _that_? That hard enough for you?" 

Sherlock was chanting desperate obscenities as his brother pounded into him from behind. His body was beyond his command now, and he let himself be shoved forward into the mattress with brutal, satisfying thrusts.

Mycroft heaved with exertion, and suddenly he gave way. His hips locked out and his face - bright pink and beaded with sweat - contorted into a painful-looking rictus of intense release. He climaxed in pulsing heaves, seeding his brother deep inside, claiming the territory for his own and for always.

Sherlock howled as he felt his brother spurt against his most intimate place, and when he brought his own hand to his cock it took barely seconds to trigger his second orgasm. His free arm flew out in front of him and he clutched at the duvet for dear life. Electric pleasure ripped through his frame, shaking him apart as he was speared. 

Their groans gradually reduced in diminuendo, and they stilled, staying connected for as long as possible until their muscles would no longer hold them up.

Mycroft pulled carefully out with a moan, and Lock collapsed with a noisy huff of joy. They immediately fell into a close embrace, stroking and petting each other, licking up sweat and semen; whispering nonsensical endearments just as they had done decades ago.

Mycroft cleared his throat. 

"To return briefly to the past...," he mumbled, just loudly enough for Gregory and John to hear.

"Oh, Lockie. All grown up now, hm?" he said.

Young Sherlock nodded emphatically through his exhaustion. 

“Mm-hm. I’ll always be your Lockie, though, whatever age. Never do it with anyone else, Mycie, never ever. Promise me!”

Mycroft smiled, though with a tinge of knowingness in his eyes out of deference to their observers. 

“Promise, promise. Nor you. Never anyone but me, darling.”

Sherlock smirked naughtily.

"Not until we've had a good 20 years together. And have learned that playmates - special ones - might become a desirable, even necessary addition to our lives."

"Ah, how wise you are, young Sherlock William. How wise you are for one so young and silly. We may well find that lovers enhance our love. In any case, we never have to break our pledge never to leave each other. Do we?"

"No, indeed, brother mine. How clever we are to acknowledge that future prospect."

They turned to their men, and grinned, smug, self-satisfied, Holmesian grins. 

Greg blew out his cheeks in astonishment at what they'd been privileged to witness. He felt a bit dizzy. The smell of sex in the room - this most illicit sex and the fact of being brought to the edge by it - had scrambled his senses. He felt as though he’d taken some kind of hallucinogen.

“Lucky for us, eh?” he said, unable to find anything better to say.

John said nothing. He looked like he’d just run a marathon, though he had merely watched one. Completely different to watching them romp at Baker Street. He felt wired into them, now he had seen their connection to its fullest extent. He'd half-wondered whether he might have felt threatened, but he didn't. He felt included. He felt like part of it.

Mycroft winked at them both with uncharacteristic impertinence. 

“Lucky? I like to think so, my dears, yes.”

They joined the brothers on the bed. Greg spooned up to Mycroft and John to Sherlock, both feeling more comfortable in their initial pairings at this moment. They petted their lovers as they came down from their hormonal high, and received grateful, adoring kisses for their trouble. 

After a respectful clean-up and afterglow period, a thought occurred to John that he was reluctant to articulate. But he was not a man to dodge an awkward question when it needed to be asked. 

“There's something we haven't talked about… You and your pledge to never do it with others. I mean, I know you eventually expanded your horizons, but... All of you, how do you feel about…other people?”

Sherlock looked round at him in appalled horror. 

“ _What?!”_

“We don’t want them, is what Sherlock means," intervened Mycroft hastily. He frowned briefly. "We hope you don’t either…”

Greg tutted and grinned.

“Are you saying ‘can we all be exclusive, and not fuck around?' Are we in a 'proper relationship'?”

“Yes!" screeched Sherlock, clipping John round the head for even raising it.

“Ow! Obviously that's what I meant!" protested John, rubbing himself. "Just checking!"

"Checking?! I declare my undying love, and share my brother, and hand Lestrade to you both on a platter, and you’re checking to see if there might be any more blokes?!"

John pinched Sherlock's thigh as hard as he could. 

"That's not what I meant, you jealous dick! I meant I want it on the record!"

Greg snorted and cuddled up to Mycie.

"I appreciate your confidence, mate, but I’m not one for shagging about when I’ve got one bloke on the go, let alone three! I’ve done an open type of thing before, but it wears thin after a while, really. No others. It’s an exclusive, one-time deal, this. Right where I want to be, I am." He leaned forward and kissed Mycroft's shoulder tenderly. The elder Holmes gazed back at him with stars in his eyes.

“Bloody idiots, think I’d go looking for a pick-up or something?” said John, still offended.

Sherlock huffed. "Who knows what you might get up to, Watson, you slut!"

John clamped a hand over his mouth to stop him getting agitated and to spare himself more berating.

Mycroft smiled across at them, suppressing a laugh at his brother's overly dramatic, still livid expression. 

"No, John, dear. We know you to be a sexually liberal but not promiscuous man. And faithful. Still, it is always good to have clarity. There will be no others. Not for us. Never. Whatever happens.”

John smiled. 'Whatever happens.' He knew what he hoped would happen. That this would be it. It felt like _It._

“And, er, protection-wise," added Greg. "We’ve discussed it, me and Myc. You and Lock must have. But, well, I guess we've already mucked about without talking about it all together..." 

"We know we’re all clean, don’t we? Unless…?” said John, querying Greg only. 

Greg smiled. “Got me tests before I started up with you, mate. On the off chance the wind was blowing the way I thought it was. Done nothing but Holmeses since.”

“Yeah. Ahem. Same here. Those two knew about it. Went snooping.”

“I know. Nosy little fuckers.”

Mycroft coughed guiltily. "Yes. Well, we’ll all get a test update, how about that? Just to have it above board. And then an annual check-up, for symbolism's sake if nothing else. What say you, Doctor?”

John nodded, pleased at the common sense, if slight over-caution. 

“Yep. Good to do that. Be more of a statement of commitment than a necessity, won't it? Keep you happy, Lock?"

Mycroft smiled. A commitment. Indeed it was.

"Humph. Yes. You should keep me happy," declared Sherlock, arching back for a kiss. "Speaking of which... You two. Your turn for show and tell. We've done our bit." 

Mycroft perked up with interest. "Ah, yes. How did it start? I've been simply dying to know.”

"You mean you didn't spy on us the whole time?"

"I've already told you I did not. I have been entirely respectful of your privacy, for the most part, despite my brother's relentless demands for video footage. He is the nasty little would-be spy in your midst, not I. As you know, Gregory."

Sherlock spluttered in his own dubious defence. "Liar!"

Greg looked across at John with a crooked and slightly embarrassed grin. 

"Fancy a re-enactment, then?"

John chuckled. 

"Go on, then. I'm game."

The Holmes brothers moved off to the head of the bed, and curled up around each other like cubs, watching intently. 

John blushed a little self-consciously, and sat up, running a hand through his hair.

"Well... First time, we were a bit tiddly. Came home from the pub."

Greg sat beside him and nudged him with an elbow. 

"Gagging for it, I recall." 

Sherlock whined with impatience. "Show us! Go on, you weren't sitting side by side on the bed!"

Greg sighed and got to his feet, now also looking a bit nervy and awkward. It was highly endearing to the Holmeses, and an instructive lesson on how their men would handle roleplay.

Greg held his hand up, steeling himself to perform, though it went against his nature to show off. 

"All right. All right. We'd had a few pints after a case. A round or two of darts. Bit of flirting."

John turned to them with a grin, launching himself into the double act. He mimed playing darts, rather impressively given his nudity.

"He did the old 'no, you're angling the flight wrong, here, let me help you' routine. Came up behind me, then pressed his hard-on up against me. Oldest trick in the book."

Greg stepped in behind John, replaying exactly that. They both snorted and then groaned at the contact, slipping more and more into the scene. 

Greg bit his partner's ear. 

"Worked, didn't it?"

"Yeah, I like a clumsy advance. Sweet. Anyway," said John, turning to the audience. "It's closing time. We leave, and I say, 'Nice evening. Fancy a chaser somewhere?'"

Greg wagged his thumb in John's direction, also speaking out towards the riveted spectators. 

"And he knows full well there are no late bars round my neck of the woods. Everywhere kicks out at eleven. Barbaric."

"And he knows I can't invite him to Baker Street."

"So I say, 'let's go to mine'."

John gave the brothers a double thumbs-up.

"It's on. Definitely."

“Cut!” called Sherlock, suddenly, holding up an imperious hand.

They paused mid-act and stared at him.

He grinned charmingly.

“There’s Greg’s front door,” he said, pointing at the bedroom door. “You’re currently on the wrong side of it. Why don’t you go out and come back in again, hm? I'd actually rather the showing than the telling.”

Mycroft chuckled fondly.

“Oh, brother mine. Turning director now? I am sorry, darlings,” he said to the actors, in the manner of an efficient stage manager, “but I think he’s quite right. Beginners in their places, please. And curtain up…”

 

_[Yes, another sodding cliffhanger. But John and Greg deserve their own chapter, don't you think?]_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lights of my life, I would love to know if you're having fun. Love you dearly. xxx


	10. The Second First Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg and John get it on under the piercing gaze of the Holmes boys. Memories, and emotions, and shagging collide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not 100% happy with this one, but I hope you get something from it. I had to bloody post something, it's been an unforgivable while! Life! Don't talk to me about life. This weekend is writing binge weekend, though. Onwards. x

Greg opened the door and gestured John through somewhat awkwardly. He’d done his fair share of daft things for a shag, but never anything quite this daft for such a seemingly crucial shag. And not usually with all the lights on and fully in the nude, with two very wide-eyed, frighteningly perceptive Holmeses observing both his acting and his sexual performance. He tried to remember that he had been privileged with status and control at their hands. If things got too embarrassing, he took comfort in the fact he could probably go a bit growly and jump on one or both of them until they rolled over for him. Definitely a good back-up plan. 

Until that point arrived, he had to focus on recreating his first bonk with the good Doctor. It suddenly occurred to him that this would be the first time they'd slept together properly since their initial encounter - apart from sharing Sherlock between them the night before. 

John span round and gave him a megawatt smile as they re-entered the room, as though to say, ‘Come on, mate, you remember how this went’. 

Greg did. He may not have the precision of an eidetic memory, but he recalled this moment in his life vividly. He'd replayed it in his head countless times since. The night he'd coaxed lovely John back to his place after the pub. The anticipation of finding out who the Doc was behind the bedroom door. Hoping that's what would happen, anyway.

The nervousness he'd tried to keep in check came back to him in a flood, and it seemed as though he truly was reliving the feelings of the moment. A rush of affection hit him and he let it show.

John looked back at him with a fond grin, and winked. 

"Not too pissed, are you?" smirked Greg, trying to recall things he might have said.

"Nah, mate. I can still see you."

Greg laughed. That's what you got with John. Laughs, and the feeling you could tell him anything. This had been the start of their all-too-brief intimate encounter. Before Holmeses had once again turned their worlds upside down. 

They'd had their moments, Lestrade and Watson. After Sherlock's Fall, John had poured out his heartbreak in many a drunken, slurry, devastated night. Greg had shared his own grief about losing the lad, and John had absorbed it all, without resentment, without condition. They'd picked each other off the floor more than a few times, and the slim possibility of comforting each other in more physical ways had hovered in the air around them. But they hadn't crossed that line. Not with Sherlock gone. 

Mary had had the privilege of healing as many of John's wounds as she could. He'd seemed to need a woman for that, back then. She had understood the hole in his heart. And understood that Sherlock's resurrection meant it being ripped open again, because she understood the meaning of Sherlock instantly. Greg had been grateful to her, even as he’d watched from the sidelines and hoped for a closer friendship at some point in the future. Mary had given John his stability back. She had given him their child, and ultimately, had given him back to Sherlock, after creating a few unintentional wounds of her own.

Only after the grief cycle had progressed enough had John let himself fully reconnect with friends and family, and looked towards a more hopeful future. Greg had been there to soak up a few more nights in the pub, a few chuckling exchanges over the Caution Tape (the irony of that not lost on either of them). He was eternally grateful for the staunch man's resilience. For the unquenchable flame which allowed him to overcome so much darkness.

Part of what attracted him had become abundantly clear over time - John Watson was simply unbreakable. He would run at life again and again. He'd batter down its doors for a clean shot at happiness. John Watson had never backed down from a fight in his life, not even the ones in his own head. Greg had fought fewer such battles. But he had never backed down from a challenge either, and John Watson was the best challenge he'd had in ages.

Greg looked round self-consciously as he realised that all three men were looking at him expectantly while he took his little trip down memory lane. He cleared his throat as he pulled himself back into the scene.  

“OK, so we get back to mine,” he explained, not 100% comfortable with the scrutiny. “I pour drinks. Watson necks his like he's steeling himself for a parachute jump."

Sherlock smirked at him from the bed, curled up against Mycroft's pale chest. “No narrating!” he berated. "Just get on with it!"

John mimed knocking back a drink and wiped his mouth, taking up the story.

"And then I go like this...," he said, ignoring Sherlock's scowl and Mycroft's low chuckle. He stepped right into Greg's space, and placed a hand on his arse. 

"John, you hussy!" giggled Sherlock, delighted. He’d never had any patience with the theatre. People in plays were seldom naked, and very seldom actually fucked each other on stage. He’d go more often if The National did this kind of thing.

Mycroft sat up with interest. 

"And?!" he said, unable to help himself.

Greg ignored them both with great enjoyment, and turned his focus entirely to John. "Ooh, hello," he said, running a hand down the side of the broad face. "Thought you'd never ask." 

He leaned in, cupping one hand round the shorter man's jaw, thumbing at his chin and kissing him softly. John responded with a low moan, and they fumbled their way into a languorous snog, exploring each other's mouths with teasing nibbles and licks. The kiss grew more desperate as their bodies made contact, and then Greg's hands were in John's hair, pulling him in with obvious passion.

John moved his own hands upwards to clasp Greg firmly between the shoulder blades and behind his neck. Their bare cocks met and they writhed together, urging themselves into a frenzy. Each man was rock hard against the other, their erections jutting up with hormone-saturated blood. 

"Oh, fuck...," breathed John at the heady sensation of skin on skin, lips on lips. His mind raced back to that first kiss. The first kiss before he'd kissed Sherlock. With the man who had somehow made it possible for him to consider being with Sherlock at all. Greg had given him his sexual confidence back that night. They had frantically stripped each other's clothes off - not necessary in this re-enactment, which was almost a shame. That first moment of mutual nudity with a new partner - the desperate pulling and shoving, revealing someone's flesh for the very first time and being revealed yourself, was a unique, unrepeatable thrill. 

Mycroft and Sherlock observed the sheer need on display as their lovers found each other again.

The pair didn't break away as they moved towards the bed, fondling and snogging. Their teeth clashed as their desperation to get even closer stepped up a notch. 

"Sure? Are you sure, John...?" husked Greg breathlessly, hands all over him. 

John remembered this part all too well, in broad content if not word for word. 

"Shut up, Lestrade," he said in a jokey tone, though he flushed with embarrassment and seemed to stall at some unbidden thought. They stood entangled at the very foot of the bed, completely aware of the piercing gazes being cast at them. 

Mycroft quickly caught on to the gist of John's momentary hesitation.

"Oh," he said, with quiet realization at what must inevitably have occurred on the night of Lestrade and Watson's first time.

Sherlock seemed puzzled and tilted his head. He could not quite deduce the issue. It was a blindspot for him. 

Greg looked up at the elder Holmes, silently asking for permission to continue. Was it really all right to lay this bare? Was it really wise to re-enact this conversation? 

Mycroft gave an imperceptible nod. 

"Speak as you spoke on the night," he said quietly, kissing his brother's curly head for comfort. "We ought to hear it." Meaning, Greg knew, that Sherlock ought to.

Greg nodded and held John's solemn face between his hands. 

"Probably should talk about the elephant in the room," he said. "What about Sherlock?" 

Sherlock looked round at his brother, his wide eyes tinged with worry. Mycroft shushed him, wordlessly communicating that it would be all right. 

John looked down, almost ready to tap out entirely. But ultimately he and Greg owed the brothers the same honest insights as they had been afforded. They owed them the truth.

"Sherlock isn't here," said John, awkwardly. "Not going to happen, mate. Me and him. Not ever.”

Greg tilted his head, with only the slightest hint of dramatic irony.

“No? Lost cause you reckon?”

John was immersed now, sinking into the past, fighting against the lump in his throat as this most personal of topics reared its head.

“Yep," he whispered. He shrugged as a hundred uncertain thoughts sped through him. "I dunno. Sometimes I think  _maybe_... But he just doesn't... I can't see it happening, after everything. He's got too much to lose. Maybe I have too. Or I've misread it all completely. Maybe it's all wishful thinking. I don't know. Can we just do this, Greg...? For now, can we just do this?" He looked up at Greg almost pleadingly, a profusion of emotion filling his hazel eyes.

Greg nodded, and swiped his thumb over John's cheek.

“Course we can, if you want. But… Don’t. Not if you think it’ll fuck things up with him. Don't need to do anything you're not convinced about. I'm not one to stand in the way."

John huffed a sardonic laugh.

"Oh, I'm convinced enough. Wouldn't be here, would I? Just... I’d rather he didn’t find out about it, if I’m honest," he confessed, resisting the urge to cringe at the admission. “At least, not for the moment.”

Greg scoffed and flicked his eyes briefly to Sherlock, who looked a bit fragile. 

“What are the chances of hiding something like this from Sherlock Holmes?" he said carefully, remembering saying exactly that. "He’ll take one look at you and suss it. One sniff and he'll know.”

“Well, maybe he should," said John, tersely, keeping his gaze fixed on Greg's kind brown eyes. To the side of them Sherlock hung his head and Mycroft whispered something inaudible in his ear which made him visibly relax. 

Greg ploughed on, taking a breath. 

"Forget about him tonight," he said, with a flash of guilt. "Not an easy task. I get that. But he can’t dictate what you do all the time, John. If the silly prat won’t make an honest man out of you… You’re a free agent. Entitled to be happy, on whatever terms. I’ll step off if you tell me to. Just quite fancy you, mate. Think we could have a giggle, you and me. I’ll face the wrath of Holmes if it comes to it.” 

He had meant it too. 

John looked at him knowingly.

“Right. I’ll say you seduced me, shall I? It was a moment of madness. We slipped and fell on each other's cocks?”

Greg laughed and punched his arm. 

“I’ll say 'wake up, you daft lad. If you want John Watson, have John Watson. And if you piss him about, you’ll have me to answer to.' Bloody silly boy. Doesn't know what he's missing, does he?”

Mycroft made a small huff of affection, but Sherlock remained silent. 

The pair kissed again, but John placed his hands flat on the older man's chest, creating a tiny bit of distance between them.

"Wait," he said, with the air of a man trying not to kick himself. "I'm not trying to lead you on, you know? I’m not trying to  _use_ you to forget about…hopeless bloody situations... I mean, I like you. Fancied you from the off. And I think I've been...for a while... It's been...”

"Lonely?" said Greg. The word resounded.  

John's vision swam and his heart beat faster at the oncoming, unstoppable force of emotion dredged up by that one simple pronouncement.

"Yeah." His voice cracked as he whispered it. "Yeah."

All of a sudden it was too much for him. He was horrified to find himself crying, which he certainly had not done the night he had gone home with Greg. 

Greg immediately grabbed him into a bear hug. 

"Hey, hey... Shit. Sorry, love... Playing with fire here, aren't we?" 

"John? Mycie?" Sherlock's voice was high with distress and he bolted forwards, not knowing what to do, feeling at fault and utterly horrified that a sex game had apparently turned into a disaster. For a brief moment he saw the edifice of this new adventure collapsing before him. 

"Dear boys," sighed Mycroft, manoeuvring himself towards John, who now sat on the end of the bed holding up a hand to indicate 'give me a minute'. 

Greg sat beside him with an arm slung round his hitching shoulders while Mycroft reached out to stroke the blond hair, twisting round to maintain eye firm contact with his brother.

"Now, now. We appear to have stumbled into a minefield of sentiment, if you'll forgive the battlefield metaphor," he said with all the composure he could muster as he sat at John's other side.

Sherlock hovered behind them uncertainly, sitting up on his knees, arms folded up to his chest.

John ran a hand through his hair.

"Yeah, sorry... Bit much..." 

"None of that, please,” chided Mycroft, voice soft and soothing. “Lock, my sweet, come here..." He reached for his brother to pull him closer, but was resisted. 

Sherlock's mouth opened and closed as he fought to express himself. 

"John? I... I didn't mean... I didn't want you to feel like that! I couldn't tell you when I disappeared, and after Mary... We, Mycroft and I, we thought you needed time, but -"

John span round, scrubbing tears off the end of his nose with the back of his hand. 

"Don't you dare explain it to me, Idiot Features. I know all that," he said with some ferocity, then chuckled at his own rather mercurial state. "Just having a moment here. It's like I've only just properly realised what this is. Can't believe... That I'm here. That you... All of you..."

Sherlock swallowed hard and Mycroft guided him gently down until he sat holding John from behind. 

John swivelled round to kiss him, keeping one hand on Greg's thigh and the other on Mycroft's.

"I fetched you in the end, John," whispered Sherlock. "I'm sorry it took so long." 

John's head dropped onto his flatmate's shoulder and he nodded, wrapping his arms around him completely now. 

Mycroft exchanged glances with Gregory, seeming a tad sheepish in the wake of such raw emotion. Recreating the past was a dangerous endeavour. He blamed himself for not anticipating this possibility. He ought to have foreseen that John would have needed to talk about Sherlock to Greg. And that mentioning it now in front of them all would be difficult for him. Some complications - the kind brought about by humans in the grip of tender feeling - were a little beyond even his wisdom. He understood the nature of love as a well-versed expert, but the capriciousness and complexity of sentiment and its expression, even the nature of psychology itself, was an eternal challenge. It was a challenge he was equal to, and found endlessly fascinating. But it was still rather hard to navigate. One could never be quite certain of anything. That was the problem. 

"Bloody Holmes plans," said Greg, with a casual tut, relieving the elder Holmes of the burden of analysis. "Always a complicated nightmare. Usually worth it in the end, aren't they?" 

John chuckled wryly and rested his forehead against Sherlock's. 

"Yeah. Pretty much," he said, running his fingers through the detective's tangled hair. He turned back to Greg with a watery grin. "Though, if I'd known they were plotting this sort of thing I wouldn't have felt so guilty for enjoying myself with you."

Mycroft frowned. "You didn't, did you? Not too much? We wanted you both to have a good time..."

"A bit guilty, yeah," shrugged John. "But I manfully struggled through it..."

He waggled his eyebrows and they collapsed into relieved if slightly awkward laughter.

Sherlock looked at him, grateful to be spared any recrimination. So grateful to have been forgiven for the lost years, though he still carried his own substantial measure of guilt for all that John had suffered on his behalf. They had worked so hard to make progress, and they had indeed made it. He looked up at Greg to convey the same intense thanks.

In truth, Sherlock felt nothing but gratitude for the D.I's extraordinary patience, and for his ability to steady any ship. Greg had made way when he could easily have sabotaged or made their lives a hundred times more complicated. That Lestrade was a thoroughly decent sort was of no surprise to Sherlock Holmes. But in a moment of utter clarity, he realised that Lestrade was that rarest of species - a truly empathetic man. Not precisely selfless. Definitely not martyrlike. But generous to a fault. For all his deductive flaws, Lestrade simply ran rings around him when it came to emotional intelligence, and he had never been so glad of it.

Sherlock shoved John towards the D.I. with a smile, as though offering him a gift.

Greg grabbed him and kissed the top of his tawny head.

"Right, what are we doing then? Not in the mood anymore?” he said, glancing cheekily down at John’s very un-hard cock.

John snorted with bashful amusement and shoved him with his shoulder. 

“Sod off!” 

Lock huffed and fell back against Mycroft. They all looked at him and he broke out into a theatrical pout.

"I still want to watch you both fucking! Do you think you can manage it with less guilt this time?" he said, performing his reliable demanding role to perfection, breaking any residual tension. 

Mycroft tugged at his brother's ear in fond reproach. 

"Disgraceful monster," he said, aridly.

Sherlock gave a winning smile. "Or perhaps you'd all rather just go to sleep? Like boring old goldfish? Mycie will make the cocoa." 

Mycroft tugged his brother's other ear. 

"Manipulative brat. Be silent." 

Sherlock pecked him on the nose and let himself be cuddled into submission, eager to let his men play things out as they wanted. 

John blew out a weary sigh.

"Hmm, where were we, then? Ah, yeah. I think I was going to explain that I'd absolutely love a shag, Lestrade."

He grinned, all traces of melancholy banished. Cleared from his system by warmth.

Greg growled and suddenly bundled him back onto the bed, forcing Sherlock to move with a squeak to save himself from being squashed. The Holmes brothers scrambled back to their position curled up at the pillow-end, as John lay back with his arms above his head. 

Greg prowled on top of him on all fours, letting the atmosphere settle back into shared erotic purpose. 

“Need a bloody good seeing to, no strings?" he husked with a wicked glint, kissing his way up John's taut body. "Is that what I asked you that night, Johnnyboy...?"

John whined in the back of his throat as his prick filled out and sprang back to attention. His hands opened and closed, and each was taken by cool Holmesian fingers. He was suddenly trapped, crucified on the bed, entirely at the mercy of his three lovers. 

“Something like that," he panted, as Greg licked and bit at his nipples. "Exactly that, actually. You cocky bastard."

Greg smirked with all his seductive powers and slowly worked his way back down to nuzzle into John's groin, sniffling and licking at his balls, rubbing his face all round to cover himself in his scent. Grinning at the whimpering sounds coming from above him, he took John's straining cock into his mouth in one achingly gradual slide. John cried out in pleasure as he was enveloped in warm wetness, thrashing his head to the side as he gripped Mycroft and Sherlock's hands. His cock was worked over by a firm, twirling tongue, and he gasped at the zing of sensation jolting through his body. 

Greg pulled off all too soon with a loud wet pop, just at the point when John felt his most mindless. 

"Fuckinghell...!" he complained with a whine. 

"Haven't had it for a while, I'll bet?" teased Greg, licking his lips with wolverine satisfaction. "Desperate for a good going over, aren't you?"

John blushed as Greg dredged up a very accurate representation of other things they'd spoken about 'on the night'. 

"Not with a bloke for years," he confessed, ignoring Sherlock's ironic giggle. "Last time... A bunkroom bunk up in the middle of the Afghan desert."

Greg moved in to kiss and suck at his lover's flushed neck. "Well, then. Welcome back on side, Captain."

"Think you're funny, don't you?" panted John, feeling a shiver run right through him at the irresistible voice rumbling in his ear. 

"Yep. Best shut me up, love."

John did as he was told, plunging his mouth and his hips upwards at the same time, causing Greg to groan deeply as he was kissed and frotted against. 

Greg's large prick hung heavy between his legs, and he pressed himself down to thrust against John's hardness, pinning his legs as he ravished him.

"Here's the deal," he said, matter-of-factly. "Don't usually do this first time out. But war heroes are special, I reckon. Chuck me that, Myc, love..." 

"Oh, with pleasure, Gregory..." 

Mycroft smirked as he tossed the pot of Vaseline. Greg caught it in one hand and placed it on the flat of John's broad chest. 

"Give me what for, eh?"

John gave a mucky laugh. 

"Fucking right I will." 

Greg rolled off and pulled at John until the Holmeses let him go. John moved swiftly on top of him with glee, reversing their positions. 

"What?! The first time, John fucked  _you_?!" exclaimed Sherlock, open-mouthed.

John and Greg shared a conspiratorial look and said nothing. 

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "I am... Shocked. You have shocked me. I am unshockable and yet..." 

"Oh, mate, we've shocked the poor babies. Let's do it some more," said Greg, lifting a leg up and planting it squarely on John's shoulder.

John grinned and snatched up the pot of lubricant, greasing up his fingers in a manner which could almost be said to be medical. Both men masturbated to keep themselves hard, locking eyes as they moved their hands in sync. 

The Holmes brothers groaned in unison, and by silent telepathic agreement moved to lay on either side of their coupling partners, like slinky bookends. They watched in rapt fascination as John began to run his slick hand up and down Greg's darkly-haired thighs, then between his legs and under his heavy balls. Greg huffed with pleasure as the sensitive skin was caressed, and he brought his other knee up, foot flat on the bed, to splay himself more openly. John rubbed with firmly strokes until Greg was panting and lax. 

John's head fell back as he touched himself with one hand and Greg with the other, sinking the tip of his finger carefully into the tightly puckered opening beneath. Greg hissed as he was invaded, and John pushed in further until his entire finger was seated tightly up to the knuckle. 

"Been a while for you too, eh?" he chuckled. 

It had. Then and now. Greg had not let anyone do this since John. And very few before him. Now no-one else would. Apart from Mycroft or Sherlock, if they ever wanted to... 

Greg snorted at John's playful gaze, and reached out to slap him hard on the arse. John repaid it with a firm thrust of his hand, and Greg bit his lip as his lover wiggled his finger around to loosen him. The good doctor was obviously getting off on the control. When his second blunt finger entered, Greg exhaled slowly and began moving against it, nodding encouragement at the querying look being cast from above. 

John probed deeper until he hit the spot he was looking for. 

"There we go...," he said, triumphantly.

"Fuck! Know what you're doing, don't you?" panted Greg. His head pulled up sharply, and he was unable to do anything but grimace at the perfect combination of pleasure-pain, so skillfully delivered. 

To his right he heard Mycroft's low moan and turned to see the elder Holmes, bright pink and masturbating furtively, as though trying not to be caught doing it. To his left, Sherlock was propped up on his elbow, casually teasing his own nipples with his free hand.

"Beautiful, Gregory. Oh, John, so lovely...," Mycroft breathed, with veneration in his tone.

John gazed down in wonder at all three of the gorgeous creatures indulging themselves on the bed, at his mercy. Life really was not going to be lonely again. Nor would it be boring. 

He leaned forward and guided the plump, slippery head of his cock to Greg's just-relaxed-enough hole, then readjusted his partner's legs, gripping his thighs as he sank himself in with a loud groan. 

"Ohh..." 

Sherlock was uncharacteristically dumbstruck, and practically cross-eyed from watching John's thickness disappear into the dark pink little aperture which opened so hungrily to take it.

If Lestrade were a man given to embarrassment, he'd have blushed under the close-quarter examination on all sides. Neither Holmes had ever seen him in such a vulnerable, exposed position before. But he felt rather proud to have shut them up for the time being.

John pushed up to the hilt, shuddering at the total immersion in his lover's moist, clutching flesh. He was dizzy with it and it galvanised him to action. He wanted more. Deeper and tighter and harder. He wanted Greg to say his name. He wanted, as he had wanted that very first time, to properly connect with a handsome, decent, ordinary man - and to feel like one himself. 

He rolled his hips slowly at first, then picked up to a punishing pace, snapping back and forth, shoving Greg's muscular body onto him with repetitious force. They fucked noisily with complete attention to each other, and the headboard battered against the wall as they took their pleasure. 

Greg stripped his cock with fast movements as John pounded into him, goading him on. 

Greg took a buggering differently from Lock, John noted. No hint of teasing or showing off; no submissive coquetting, or pert naughtiness. No puppyish enthusiasm or bratty, theatrical squealing. Greg grunted and puffed, jaw locked with grit and determination. He drove you on with his hands on your hips, topping just a little bit from the bottom, fighting for control with thrilling fire. Greg took it like a man's man, where Lock took it like an ethereal god receiving worship, or like a wicked little demon, just that tiny bit androgynous, coaxing you to corruption. Masculinity and sex in all its forms. John loved every facet.

The thought 'and how would Mycie take it?' ran fleetingly across his mind. Because he didn't yet properly know. He suspected the answer was 'like a connoisseur' or 'like a wide-eyed supplicant', or even 'like a very polite randy kitten'. Such delights were still to come. For now though, he had Greg growling loudly, impaled on his cock, letting himself go to make sure they all heard the strength of his desire. John fucked him harder still.

Suddenly, two pairs of cool, elegant hands were all over both of them, caressing from the sides, stroking firmly down John's spine, and up Greg's furred chest, feeling their way across their faces and tangling in their hair. Two pairs of bright, feline eyes, whirlpools of blue and grey, travelled over the rutting lovers, feeling every taut sinew, every hard muscle, every wobble of delicious softness. Two long patrician noses sniffed at their damp skin; sharp, high cheekbones rubbed at their torsos. Faces moved front and back, hunting out the scent of sex, huffing like addicts at the new combination of musky pheromones and unique fragrances. Two long tongues licked the length of strong arms and toned legs; two sets of sharp white teeth nibbled and stimulated every patch of flesh they could take hold of, moving in rhythm with the undulating motion of hips and contracting abdomens.  

The Holmes boys tasted and sniffed their fill, committing the naked copulation of their beloved men to memory; filing away every chemical for future reference, and burning this precious first into their overworking brains.

It was sensory overload on all sides.

"Gonna come, gonna come...," John babbled, feeling orgasm build deep within him. It made this thigh muscles quiver and shake. His eyes closed automatically at the onset of that glorious climbing feeling.

Greg brought his other leg to John's shoulder now and pulled his lover's hips closer to force his cock even harder against his prostate. He murmured deep encouragement, unashamed to be delivering the pornographic cliche "yeah, yeah, yeah," over and over again. With his internal muscles he bore down, making himself tighter for John and heightening his own pleasure in the process.

They were dimly aware of Mycroft rolling over onto his front and gesturing frantically to his brother; then of Sherlock hastening off round the bed to straddle him. 

"Please, Sher. Please!" Mycroft was begging, and then gasping as his brother's wet fingers breached him.

Four collective groans mingled into one, and then all that could be heard was the slapping and squelching of sex.

When Sherlock cast a filthy, lascivious look at John - fingers-deep in his brother's raised arse, bringing him off with his hand while the redhead bit down on his own forearm - John lost it completely. He grunted in quick succession and emptied himself deep inside Greg's gut with a broken cry.

Greg felt pulsing warmth flood him, and he groaned as John's hips shuddered against him with jerky, uneven movements.

“Fuck, Greg!”

"Oh, John. Oh, Jesus..." 

"Oh, good God!" groaned Mycroft, spending with a start over his little brother's fist. 

John fell forwards, completely spent, sweating and gasping for breath over Greg's heaving body. The sound of recovery filled the bedroom. 

As usual, Sherlock broke the peace.

"Mycie came again! So soon!" he declared proudly, happily licking his brother's semen from his fingers as though it were his favourite jam. 

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Oh, really, Lock! I'm not actually ancient, you know. And use a tissue, you revolting boy!" 

They all collapsed into a heap, reordering themselves on the bed. John spooned up behind a rather dazed-looking Greg, and Sherlock wrapped himself round a yawning Mycroft, facing each other in their pairs. 

Sherlock frowned down at Greg, noticing something you didn't have to be the world's best consulting detective to notice.

"You're still hard."

John looked round with dismay. 

"What? You didn't....? Oh. I thought... Sorry, Greg. Got a bit carried away. I definitely remember making you come the first time... These two must think I'm a right dud. Or a selfish bastard," he said, with a worried look.

Mycroft chuckled. 

"I think we know better than that by now, my dear. Gregory? Do you not respond to such stimulation in that way? Some men don't, I hear."

Greg laughed a dirty laugh. 

"Oh, I respond to it, doll. But I was, erm, saving meself, actually. I can go a bit, you know. Put Prince Charming here to shame. Just wondered whether Johnnyboy fancied returning the favour? Cos the second time we did it - the morning after, as I recall - it was definitely me up his arse. I'd like to give you the full effect, so to speak..."

Sherlock giggled as John's eyes glazed over. 

"Arrogant fucker," John said, trying to recover his composure by pinching Greg's meaty bum as hard as he could. 

"Ow! What, no good? Bet I can make you come again. Maybe get those two off for a third..."

"Yes, please!" sang Sherlock, propping his chin up on Mycroft's shoulder.

"I am not going to be able to do that again until at least suppertime tomorrow," said Mycroft, firmly. “But I would very much like to watch a rematch. If you would be so kind.”

"Good job I'm fit, isn't it?" said John, pretending to grumble. "Caught me breath now. All right, have your wicked way." 

"I will,” leered Greg. “Anyway, I'm not an arrogant fucker. I'm an enthusiastic fucker."

John winked at the Holmeses and let Greg roll him over and kiss the breath from him. 

Greg manhandled John onto his hands and knees, feeling renewed energy compelling him towards more exertion. His arse tingled from John’s wonderfully bruising technique, but the heavy, unsatisfied sensation of his erection nagged at him with greater urgency. 

John felt delightfully light-headed and relaxed after his brain-frazzling orgasm. Relieved of his own immediate need to come, he let his lover have his own way without resistance, pushing his arse out for his attention on all fours.

Sherlock snatched up the pot of lube like a greedy child, and shoved his way over his brother's supine body, causing Mycroft to huff and slap at his wiggling bottom.

The elder Holmes disentangled himself from lanky, careless limbs and propped himself sensibly against the headboard to take in the next show. 

Sherlock knelt beside Greg, looking up at him through doe-like lashes, thrusting his lower lip out in a pretty pout. 

"Help you?" he said, in his best sinful baritone, scooping up Vaseline onto his fingers. 

"Oh, sweet lad. You're always helping me, aren't you?" grinned Greg, as Sherlock brought his hand to his hard-on and massaged the lube into it, taking his time to work it in. 

Sherlock licked his lips as he gazed down, learning every rivet and groove of his shaft. Greg's eyes closed in bliss as Lock explored him, running his fingers along the underside, squeezing the ridge of his thick head and tickling at his retracted foreskin with light, delicate touch. The slim, dexterous hand wrapped around his girth, measuring it with scrupulous accuracy, caressing it with care. 

"Wanted to do this when I saw you fucking my brother... Now I have to watch you fuck my boyfriend,” teased Sherlock, eyes flashing with unmitigated lust. “I've already had you in my mouth, 'Gregory'. But when are you going to fuck _me_ , hm?"

Greg bit down a helpless moan. 

"You'll get yours, boy,” he said, in a voice not quite as controlled as he’d have liked. 

Sherlock chuckled naughtily. "Oh, I will. I always do."

"Oi, you. Stop hogging my shag!" protested John. "I thought I was the one getting... Oh, fuck, that's cold!" He squeaked as Sherlock's long fingers liberally applied unwarmed unguent to his exposed arsehole, dipping into him smoothly to scissor and twirl him open. 

When he was fully prepared, John shuffled further forwards to place his hands either side of Mycroft, leaning in to kiss him as Greg mounted up behind. 

Mycroft sighed in contentment and stroked the side of John's face with affection, giving no hint that any of this was out of the ordinary. 

Greg smirked and began to ease himself in, parting John's shallow bottom cheeks with his thumbs. He placed the very tip of himself at the slick entrance, watching with satisfaction as it stretched to accept him.

John gritted his teeth and spread his knees wider. As relaxed as he was, taking Greg was something of a task. He remembered that now. 

He grunted as he pushed down and let himself be speared another inch. Greg shushed him as he sank deeper, and gradually, by degrees, found his way in, forcing John almost to his limit. 

John hissed, and Greg stilled completely to let him adjust to the extent of penetration. 

"All right?"

"Yeah, all right. Slow now... Oh, bloody hell, forgot how much this..." 

But then he arched his back and it was a bit more than just all right. The angle was perfect, and he groaned at being so completely filled. He and Sherlock had not yet experimented like this. Sherlock had been on the receiving end of his and Mycroft's ministrations. But John hadn't taken it since the last time with Greg. Repetitions of firsts upon firsts tonight, he reflected. 

Sherlock was stunned into silence again by the sight of John being impaled on Greg's substantial appendage. But he needed more. More participation. More closeness. He fell upon Greg as he thrust, overlooked by Mycroft, who was making encouraging little moans at every movement. 

"I want to. I want to,” Lock murmured plaintively, kissing his way down Greg's spine towards his rutting backside. “Let me. I _want_ to."

"Let you what?" shivered Greg, slowing his pace slightly, causing a low moan from John.

Mycroft chuckled darkly. 

"He wants to debase himself, Gregory. Best to let him, I always find. John? He _wants_ to."

John snorted his consent. Then he grinned up at Mycroft, sharing a filthy look as he heard deep groans behind him, and the slurping, suctioning noise of Sherlock pressing his eager mouth to Greg's sticky, used hole.

"Oooh... Can taste you, John," moaned Sherlock, coming up for air. "Oh, you taste of my John..."

Greg practically whimpered as Lock sank back down behind him and tongued at his backside. He resumed thrusting ever so gently, not wanting to knock Sherlock off the bed, but trying very hard to concentrate on his partner. It was rather distracting, being rimmed at the same time as trying to provide an epic fuck.

He groaned incoherently as Lock kissed at him harder, filling his mouth with the remnants of John’s semen. Greg made a mental note: the boy is beautifully disgusting. The boy likes _everything,_ and will have everything _._ Greg would give him everything he wanted. With discipline, of course. But the same applied to all of them. He might never admit as much, but they had him over a barrel. They could have whatever they wanted of him. He was gloriously lost to them now.

Sherlock finally pulled away with a low giggle as Lestrade’s thrusts became more erratic and harder to keep up with. He crawled past the rampantly fucking pair towards his brother, showing off shamelessly for their benefit. Mouth full.

Mycroft grabbed him by the hair and pulled him up – equally intent on his own bit of showmanship.

"Share it, you filthy brat," he snarled, much to his brother’s utter delight. "Share it or I'll put you over my knee again and make you spill it when you howl at me..." 

Sherlock lunged forward to kiss him passionately, and they rolled the essence of both men across their tongues, swapping it between them, letting it drip down both of their chins and onto their chests. They lay back together, smirking like fiends - completely and utterly debauched. Both were vaguely hard, but neither could quite manage to come a third time in such quick succession. They were, for all their Holmesian magic, only human after all.

And so was Greg. He couldn’t take it anymore. He gripped John’s hips and redoubled his efforts, feeling his engorged head dragging against his lover’s clenching hole. He throbbed with manic heat.

John cried out on every thrust as his sensitive inner gland was laid siege to. He reached for his cock but Greg batted his hand away and began pulling at him from behind, focusing his attentions on the nerve-endings just below his swollen crown.

John grunted haphazardly and swore loudly. Against all odds, he was going to come again. And he did, though less copiously this time. His compact, toned body shuddered apart beneath Greg’s square hands, and he shoved his arse back to further impale his prostate, milking himself dry.

The move set Greg off into the stratosphere – his balls drew up, his stomach contracted, and he bellowed to the ceiling as he came in a melting gush, screwing his eyes shut at the exhilarating rush. He pulsed four, five times, injecting his load high into John’s quivering passage, almost unconsciously saying the names of his lovers out loud. Oh, John. Oh, Lock. Oh, Mycie. My boys, my boys…

He was barely aware of John extracting himself with a slight whine; of being bundled into the centre of the bed and enveloped in a tangle of sweaty limbs; of being kissed and petted, and stroked down from his cloud of happy hormones.

When he came back to earth a little more, Greg couldn’t stop grinning. And, he saw, neither could anyone else. John was huddled against him, keeping close in the aftermath, while Lock and Mycroft smirked at them both with a smugness nobody could begrudge.

“I want to do that again,” said Lock, bouncing on the mattress, incongruently energetic when everyone else was drooping with exhaustion. “And again, and again. All the bloody time! Tomorrow and the day after! Can you stay for the week? We could stay here and - "

“Stop badgering, Lock!” admonished Mycroft, pulling him close to still him.

Sherlock wiggled in frustration as he was captured. “I am not badgering!”

“You are, mate,” said John, without opening his eyes. “Badgering non-stop. You’re the definition of an absolute badger.”

“I am not an absolute badger!” he retorted, with great indignation. “Stop laughing, Watson!”

Greg laughed in spite of himself.

“Badger,” he giggled.

“Largest carnivore in Britain, the badger,” mused Mycroft, levelly.

Sherlock huffed and glared round at them all with evil intent. “I am _not_ a badger! You’re badgers, all of you, because you’re all going hopelessly grey!”

Three hands smacked at him and he squealed in outrage.

“Oi! Watch it,” warned John. “Badger.”

Sherlock kicked at him.

“Arrgh! Mycie, tell them! They’re being awful!”

Mycroft suppressed a laugh. “He’s not a badger, my darlings. Little Brother is merely a common or garden pest.”

Sherlock sulked and shoved his head into the pillow in disgust.

“Hate you!”

Fortunately for him, the offensive laughter was interrupted. Rosie started to cry from the new nursery.

Sherlock was very grateful for her sense of timing. He loathed being mocked in any circumstances, let alone _en masse_ by a bunch of ingrates. This was an unlooked for consequence of having multiple partners, he realised with dismay: multiple, intolerable piss-taking. Still, perhaps the multiple orgasms made up for that.

"Oop, there's my cue," said John, rolling out of bed and throwing some clothes on. "Daddy Duty calls."

"I'll get up in a bit, love, if you need a hand," offered Greg, through a yawn.

"Cheers. You stay put. I'll settle her back down. Thanks for the memories, handsome,” he said, pecking a cheeky kiss on the rumpled silver hair.

Greg grinned sleepily up at him.

"Got some new ones now, haven't we?"

"Plenty more where that came from. When I can walk properly again."

"Bet your tight little arse, Doc."

John departed, whistling contentedly, then winced and wiggled awkwardly as spunk rolled down his legs and soaked into his jeans. 

Greg gathered a Holmes into each arm, so that two heads rested on his chest - one dark and wildly curled, the other lighter, thinner, but ruffled into cute little waves.

“You two all right, then?”

Two luminous gazes peered up at him incredulously. He bit his lip sheepishly at the stupid question.

Mycroft rubbed his face against his lover’s furry chest. "What would you like to do tomorrow, my dear?” he asked, gallantly. “Are you in any hurry to return to Lambeth?”

Sherlock snorted in derision. As if anyone would be. Especially not when they could be here.

"Nope. But...,” ventured Greg, “I wondered if...maybe me and Lock could spend a bit of the day together?"

Sherlock looked up with surprise.

"Really?!"

"If you'd like to," offered Greg, hoping it wasn’t too soon to ask for that. He wasn’t precisely sure what the arrangement was regarding one-on-one time. He guessed they’d work it out.

"Just us?" checked Sherlock, looking at Mycroft for confirmation. Mycroft remained blank, leaving the decision up to the two of them.

"That wasn't a yes,” said Greg, with a bit of uncertainty.

Sherlock quickly nodded.

"Yes! I meant yes. Yes is what I meant. Just us, yes. Definitely. I won’t be like I am at work, I promise. Not much, anyway." 

Greg snorted, letting his pleasure shine through.

"Cool," he said, with faux nonchalance.

"And Mycie and John can look after Rosie,” declared Sherlock, with a nod.

Mycroft squirmed. "Oh, Lord..." 

"She likes you!"

"There's scant evidence for that, brother mine. She blew bubbles at me."

"One of the highest compliments in the infant language,” sniffed Sherlock, dismissively. “I used to do it to you all the time. Besides, immersing yourself in the youth of today will help you become less stuffy.”

"Impertinent imp. As if I haven’t fully immersed myself in your youth in my time… All right, I shall spend the day with the Watson dynasty,” he replied, attempting to disguise his rather befuddled satisfaction at the idea. He looked up at Greg with a mischievously raised brow. “And you shall set about seducing my baby brother, Gregory. Or have I missed the point?"

"Not one to miss the point, are you, doll?" said Greg, kissing his forehead while Lock chuckled and preened at the very notion.

Mycroft smirked, and linked hands with his brother.

"Not I, Gregory. Not I."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lights of my life, I would love to know if you're having fun. Love you dearly. xxx


	11. The Day Together, part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys pair off differently for a day together. Getting to know each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...it's been a dreadfully long time, not entirely of my choosing and because October is a stupid busy month for me. Here is a small update, unashamedly soppy and smutless for the time being. Mostly John and Mycroft. Part 2 will be Greg and Sherlock-centric, with all the fourway smut to conclude. Oh, please say you're not too cross with me! xxx

Greg woke with a sudden start. It was the middle of the night. Or start of the morning. He couldn't quite tell. It was, in any case, 3.34am GMT precisely, if Mycroft’s bedside clock was to be believed. What had woken him?

“H2S2O4, Dithionite; H2S4O6, Tetrathionate; H2S2O2, Thiosulfite; H2S2O8 Peroxydisulfate…”

Oh, yeah. That. Chemistry babble.

“Lock! Sherlock!” he hissed, trying very hard not to wake John next to him, or Mycroft on the far side of the bed, both of whom seemed out for the count. Probably used to this kind of thing.

Sherlock did not stir. His eyes were closed. He was entirely still. Except for his mouth and the low baritone which emanated from it. He lay flat on his back, face up to the ceiling, reciting things Greg could not understand. Hardly a first in itself. But hearing it in bed was a new one.

“HClO4, Perchlorate; HCl, Hydrochlorate; HClO, Hypochlorite…”

“Sherlock Holmes!” he said, over John’s head, cringing as his voice rang out in the otherwise silent night.

The blue-silver eyes sprang open, though the rest of Sherlock remained motionless, resembling a vampire at the setting of the sun.

“Problem, Lestrade?” he said, looking round coolly, annoyed at having been awoken but alert in case of genuine trouble.

Greg sighed and rubbed his eyes.

“You were talking in your sleep,” he whispered.

“So?” frowned Sherlock, speaking at his usual volume. “Is that a reason to wake me?”

“You were keeping me awake!”

“You’re both keeping  _me_  awake now!” came a grumpy rumble between them. John raised his bed-rumpled head and scowled. “Bloody shut it!”

“He was waffling on, John! Chemistry bollocks.”

Sherlock looked indignant.

“Chemistry bollocks?! Well, did you take notes? What was I saying?! It’s important.”

“He does this sometimes, mate,” yawned John, trying to be reasonable. “Just ignore it.”

“Do not ignore it! What was the last thing I said?”

Greg scratched his head.

“Erm… Can’t recall. Hypo something. Think you said hydrochloric…”

“Oh. Oh, perhaps it was nothing then. Just listing acids. Well, next time, write it down. You’re supposed to keep a notebook by the side of the bed,” instructed Sherlock, haughtily. “Things often come to me in my sleep.”

“My bloody hand’ll come to you in your sleep if you don’t shut up!” said John, rolling over aggressively.

“Lestrade woke me up!”

“Do you think you might be more comfortable in your room, Lock?” came Mycroft’s voice, clear as a bell. Greg looked over. He was flat on his back too, eyes closed, to all intents and purposes asleep. Another vampire – charismatic, pale, and poised even at rest.

“No!” retorted the young Holmes. “Greg might be though, if he doesn’t have the manners to let a chap do some nocturnal data processing!”

“I’ll give you nocturnal data processing…,” muttered Greg.

“That doesn’t mean anything!”

“Down the corridor, second door on the left, dear,” rumbled Mycroft, “I’ll be in with tea in the morning.” And with that he promptly fell back into unconsciousness.

Greg saw that it might be a sensible idea. He wasn’t used to sleeping with others. And so many others. Not for actual sleep. At this rate he’d be wiped out for the morning, which risked a somewhat lacklustre day. He’d promised the Great Yammering Brat a nice day together, so he chose to sacrifice the warmth of Mycroft’s huge bed and stumble down the corridor, shivering at the chilly night air.

He found what he assumed was Lock’s room, containing another huge bed, though it was obviously rarely slept in. He rummaged in the cupboards to find a few extra blankets and settled himself in for a kip. It was always hard to fall asleep in a new, cold bed. Especially after you’d been so rudely awoken.

But he must have fallen asleep eventually, because before he knew it he was being woken up again. Grey daylight bled into the room at the edges of the curtains. And a familiar pair of silver-blue eyes were staring into his own. The bed seemed to have shrunk in the night, because he had distinctly less room to move than before. He briefly wondered whether some large cat had escaped from London Zoo, and was now draping itself across his chest.

“Morning,” said Sherlock, with a cheerful smile from his position atop the D.I. 

Greg frowned and blinked.

“Is it? What time?”

“6am exactly. 6.01am,” said Sherlock, correcting himself.

“What are you doing here?”

Sherlock scowled.

“You said we were spending the day together. It’s sunrise. The day has begun. Ergo, here I am. You said.”

Greg chuckled at the little creases between the detective’s nose and rubbed them away with his fingers.

“Oh, yeah. So I did. But I don’t intend to actually rise at dawn. Want to lie in with me for a couple of hours? Think you can keep your gob shut?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Yes. My REM phase is over. I shall doze.”

“There’s a lovely lad. Only come in for a cuddle, haven’t you?”

“I have not come in for a cuddle,” protested Sherlock, determined not to be rumbled. “I was holding you to your word. Now be quiet and go back to sleep. John will be up in an hour, I calculate. Rosie usually puts in an appearance around seven. Mycroft will follow and be forced to assist with unspeakable infant preparations. Tea will be made and brought to us around eight. And then we shall have our day together.”

Greg pulled him by the t-shirt to lie flat by his side. He threw an arm over him and pinned him. 

“Lovely. Give us a cuddle and shush.”

“Yes, Greg.”

***

At 7.08am, Rosie Watson tested out her relatively new lungs. Their capacity was substantial, to say the least.

John sprang up, rubbing his face.

“OK, OK, here I am, RoRo…”

Mycroft stirred, looking, as he always did, neat and composed. Though his hair rumpled rather fetchingly round ears.

John grinned at him a bit sleepily.

“Sorry, Myc, I’ll go. You stay put… Hang on, Sherlock…?”

Mycroft smiled.

“Huddled up to Gregory, I imagine.”

John snorted.

“Oh, that’s how it is now, is it?”

Mycroft tilted his head in query.

John waved it away with a smile.

“Don’t be daft, it’s cute. Glad they’ve got a bit of time together. And, erm, so have we today, yeah?”

“If that is acceptable to you, and the young lady?”

“Very acceptable. Brekkie and a little jaunt on the Heath, I was thinking. Up for that?”

Mycroft nodded.

“Yes. Though, erm… Baby duties…”

John smirked.

“I won’t make you change any nappies. Though…it is just a mundane kind of job. Would you kill me if I said I’d like it if you could…stay in the room? Bit of real life grit for you. Consider it a learning curve.”

Mycroft wrinkled his nose in distaste.

“That’s what I was afraid you’d say. Well, all right. I will try to expose myself to the cut and thrust of ‘real life’ as you call it. How ghastly. I don’t know how you do it, John. Nothing bothers you at all, does it?” he said with overt admiration.

“Nah, not much. I’m a doctor and a Dad. Totally well equipped to deal with bodily fluids from all orifices.”

“Oh, John, please!”

 “What? It’s part of my rugged charm!”

“Go, go. I shall make tea. Should I also… Does the young lady require milk? I could...”

“Yeah. That'd be nice. There's formula in the bag by the cot. Need to sterilize the bottle on the kitchen table.”

“Right.”

“Cheers."

“Oh, and John, do use the en suite shower, and there are spare towels in the cupboard there… And just… Make yourself at home.”

John smiled warmly.

“Charmer.”

John disappeared to see to his child, and Mycroft gazed after him thoughtfully.

He rose and showered, taking a little extra care over himself, making sure he was primped, plucked and immaculately ordered. He set his hair neatly, tugging at the forelock to make it a little longer, going so far as to wax the natural waves in place. He had been told that was attractive on him, and though he failed to see the difference between this and his habitual slicked back style, he was eager to be as appealing as possible.

He dressed himself in grey herringbone trousers, more casually cut than his officewear, and selected a plain blue shirt, worn underneath a smooth black cashmere jumper. He rolled the sleeves, and turned back and forth before the mirror in his walk-in closet. He hoped he looked convincingly casual, and just a tiny bit more contemporary than his usual image.

A walk on Hampstead Heath with John and the infant. He wanted to look like a respectable, very un-uptight kind of man. The kind of man who wasn’t squeamish about going outside to mingle with the general public. A nice man with a respectable profession one could speak of at dinner parties. A lawyer or some kind of property executive, perhaps. Hampstead was full of such types. Which is frankly why he never went out.

As he passed by the nursery on his way downstairs he could hear John chatting away.

“Right, it’s Winnie the Pooh onesie day for you, little Piglet. Eh? We like Winnie, don’t we? He’s a silly Poohbear. Isn’t he a silly old bear?”

Mycroft smiled to himself. One could not go wrong with A.A. Milne at any age.

***

As promised, Mycroft brought up a tea tray to Sherlock's room. 

Gregory was awake, twinkling at him from above a bird's nest of messy curls resting on his shoulder.

"You appear to have my brother in a headlock, Gregory."

"Wouldn't stop fidgeting. Then I grappled him and he just went out like a light."

"Yes, that would seem largely in character."

"Mmph," mumbled Sherlock, grumpily blinking away. "Go'way, sleepin'"

"You've had eight hours to sleep, Lock. It is not our fault you have used them unwisely."

"Sh'up!" Sherlock shoved his head under the pillow in fury.

Greg gently extracted himself and sat up as Mycroft passed him a cup of tea. 

"Mind, Lock. Hot tea."

The curly head bobbed up, dislodging the pillow.

"Tea?"

"Yes, here." 

Sherlock span round and sat up too, taking his cup with eager fingers. His grumpy mood dissolved instantly on contact with hot water.

Greg made an 'aahh' noise as he swallowed the just-right cuppa.

"Thanks, love, that's cracking. Be up in a mo. John and bubs OK?"

Mycroft smiled gently. "Yes. Rosamund is replete with formula and is now being bathed."

"Put Duckward in for her. She'll need him," nodded Sherlock, seriously.

Mycroft look askance. "I have done so. But I thought you'd sulk about it. Isn't he off limits?"

Sherlock snorted. "Not to Rosie. Rosie's allowed. But no-one else," he added, with a menacing glare.

Greg looked puzzled, but didn't feel quite up to deciphering what was undoubtedly some kind of code. Not before breakfast. He shrugged and sipped, accepting a kiss on the forehead from Mycroft. 

"Have a lovely day, my dears," said the elder Holmes. "We shall reconvene for lunch, perhaps? Or later, if you prefer."

Greg winked. "Play it by ear, love."

Sherlock plonked his empty cup down on the side table and folded his arms, regarding his brother with a pout. 

"Er, where's my kiss?!"

"Here."

Mycroft pecked his brother on the nose and was summarily scowled at. Then Lock pulled him down and bit him on the nose in retaliation.

"Ouch!"

Greg tutted and shook his head as Mycroft rubbed at the pain.

Sherlock ignored them both and settled back against Greg's chest. A sudden thought occurred to him. Something he was sure his brother had mentioned mere seconds ago, but which surely couldn't be right... He frowned incredulously.

"You're not really going to spend the day being Rosie's nanny, are you? You're not really,  _seriously_ going to walk with a pram on Hampstead Heath holding hands with John, like a photoshoot for a gay lifestyle magazine? In a cashmere jumper?!" 

It was too much. He broke into giggles, wiggling his toes in delight at the image. 

Mycroft stood to his full height with great dignity. 

"We shall not be holding hands," he said, with an icy chill.

Sherlock's face shifted back into a sudden mercurial scowl.

"Why not?! Why don't you want to hold hands with my John?" he demanded, leaping to his lover's defence.

"It's not the John part, it's the...," blustered Mycroft, before composing himself. "Oh, shut up, you terrible scamp. Gregory, you are welcome to him today. I wish you the best of luck."

"Cheers, doll. Don't worry, I've got my beady eye on him." 

Sherlock merely smirked and lay back, hands behind his head. Greg glared down at him with a knowing twinkle in his dark eyes as Mycroft swept from the room, disguising his quirking lips.

***

The air on Hampstead Heath was no better than most London air, John supposed. Probably just as fraught with exhaust fumes. But the greenery helped give the illusion of health and natural harmony. In truth, he didn't know north London particularly well. But he loved what Londoners thought of as 'the great outdoors' - leafy, green parks, and best of all, the historic Heath gazing down upon the City skyscrapers from its high vantage point, with its ponds and its trails (and its hidden cruising grounds). 

To walk here was a treat. To walk here with Rosie, and with Mycroft Holmes in attendance, was something like black magic. 

“Cheers for coming out," he said, a little shyly. Because for all their more intimate association, for all the many days and nights they had spent pleasuring Sherlock or watching each other do so, they did not quite know each other in so easy a fashion.

They were not friends in the manner that John was friends with Greg. Nor could they rely on years of close acquaintance, years of circling round each other, reticently in love. They had no history to fall back on, apart from the recent past, and years of assumptions. John could not quite recall being left alone with Mycroft for... Had he ever been? Hadn't there always been someone present when they met? Sherlock, or Anthea, or some driver or other. He must have surely walked with the man before...but...

He wondered briefly what to say to him, despite how easily words had flowed nights ago, when they were thrashing out their little cabal of wickedness together. Here in broad daylight, chatting casually to Mycroft Holmes seemed rather intimidating. 

Mycroft sensed the slightly awkward mood, but refrained from commenting. What on earth did one say to John Watson in daylight, as he wheeled his daughter along in a perambulator? He fell back on his ingrained habit of impeccable politeness. They would get used to this, he hoped. If only he could think of something to say which John might approve of...

“A pleasure. It is rather nice to be out with you. I feel almost normal.”

John shook his head. “Oh dear, can’t have that. Do you want to order a raid or something? Might be Russian spies in the caff over there.”

“No," corrected Mycroft, with his customary dryness. "The Russian spies run the newsagent’s on the high street.”

They laughed together. John tilted his head in the direction of the small kiosk with benches which constituted a parkland cafe. 

“Fancy a coffee?”

Mycroft attempted to disguise his grimace and failed. 

“Is it likely to be drinkable?”

“So-so," said John, truthfully. "Buy you a bit of inedible cake too, if you’re lucky.”

He cocked a cheeky look at the older man, one of rather thrilling flirtation and minor tease. One that Mycroft was not minded to ignore. 

“An offer I can’t refuse," he said, gallantly, ushering them onward.

As they repaired to the kiosk John stepped away from the pram and nudged it towards the British Government. 

"Go on. Take her. Grab a bench. I'm buying. And slam the brakes on that thing."

"Oh, but...!"

Mycroft's protest was duly ignored, and he was left almost literally holding the baby. He looked down with doubt as he awkwardly wheeled Rosamund Watson away. A pair of blue-green eyes sparkled back up at him. His young charge silently regarded him, as though to say, "And so we meet again." A worthy adversary indeed. 

After some humiliating fumbling with the brake gauge, he managed to park, and sat meekly under a tiny female gaze waiting for his coffee. He did not dare let his mind wander to deduce the surrounding dog walkers, joggers, mid-morning saunterers, nor even to consider his own self-consciousness, nor wonder what Gregory was doing with Lock at this moment. Because if his attention wavered for an instant something awful might happen. A dog might jump up, or someone might spill a hot drink, or...what if the brake wasn't on properly, and wasn't he supposed to do something like talk to her, or rock her or something? Is that what people did?

When John returned, he could barely suppress the broad grin on his face. Mycroft Holmes, with his black leather gloves and his expensive wool coat, perched on a wooden bench, jiggling a pram up and down, and looking like the biggest adorable misfit in town. 

Mycroft scowled at the affectionate look, feigning displeasure and giving off an air of tolerant grace. 

John spared him comment, and merely passed over a lukewarm black coffee. He placed his own down on the bench, and rummaged for a milk bottle to give Rosie for her mid-morning snack. They all drank in companionable silence, until it seemed to Mycroft that he ought to say something. It emerged from his lips tentatively. Humbly.

“John… I’m very glad…”

John cut him off with an open smile.

“Oi, none of that. I know. Having a blast. All good.”

Mycroft shifted along the bench, peering into the pram once more.

“She’s coming along nicely," he said, half-asking, half-commenting.

John nodded a little wistfully. 

“She’s doing well, yeah. Helps having people around for her to respond to. I appreciate it. I mean, I can’t…give her a Mum. But…”

His throat tightened as he trailed off. Mycroft turned to him with sudden seriousness.

“I know no-one can substitute for her mother. But she will not want for love, John. Neither will you."

He coloured at his own audacity, but his response had been automatic. Intuitive.

John looked mildly taken aback, though not upset. He shrugged off the potential heaviness of the conversation. 

“Not got many female role models for her. Even fewer now it's clear I'm not actually going to shack up with some nurse from the hospital.”

Mycroft snorted. 

"Indeed, we do hope not." He tilted his head. "It worries you? The lack of feminine support?”

He had not ever considered from John's perspective the ins and outs of child-rearing, let alone all the myriad things a man in such a position might have to worry about. This was a new frontier for Mycroft Holmes, and he wanted to be equal to it. Because Sherlock somehow was. Lock took it all in his stride. With a maturity he hadn't quite believed him capable of. That was the magic of John Watson. He revealed new things about his baby brother, even to him. And John consistently revealed new things about himself. That too was a marvel. 

John looked at him with a little bemusement, as though he wasn't entirely sure what he thought about his current parental circumstance, as it collided with his romantic one. 

“There’s your mother. Your sister…?” ventured Mycroft, prompting his partner to elaborate if he wanted to. 

John nodded. 

“Yeah. Yeah. She’s getting there, Harry. She’s doing all right. Helps Mum babysit sometimes. It’s good for her. Good for all of us, actually. And Mum's obviously just mad for her granddaughter. Have to keep her at arm's length a bit or she'd take over. Wouldn't be without her, obviously.”

Mycroft caught the unmistakable relief of that statement, and empathised - John's family becoming more secure, just when he was most in need of it. Just when they all were.

“I’m glad to hear it," he said. "People do recover. Grandmothers dote. But as for other female role models… Your friends? The young pathologist with the appalling crush on my brother, for example. A mousey creature, but with her own brand of grit, if I am not mistaken.”

“Yep. Definitely a good egg, Molly. I mean, I'm sure she wants to scratch my eyes out, but I think she gets it. Me and him. And Mrs H is ever vigilant on the Rosie front. Apparently, I'm not very good at doing the washing. Shrunk all her tops down an age group. Gave me a right bollocking and insists on doing the baby clothes herself. Just her way of being useful. She's not our housekeeper, I'll admit. But she does a bloody good impression of it." 

"The Inimitable Hudson. She quite chills me to the bone."

John giggled. 

"Yeah, she should. You're not in her good books at all. So she likes to pretend, anyway." 

Mycroft frowned at this curious statement and changed the subject.

"You have a veritable support network, John. And you will keep Mary's memory alive for the child."

John shot him a look of such hope that it made his chest ache. 

"I’ll make sure her Mum… I’ll make sure she knows who her Mum was.”

Mycroft reached across and briefly squeezed the back of John's bare hand as it rested on the pram. 

“Neuroplasticity, my dear Doctor Watson.”

John looked up confused.

“Adaptation of brain pathways? What about it?”

Mycroft smiled as John shifted just slightly into Doctor mode.

“Indeed. There have been studies… I have done a little research," confessed the elder Holmes, colouring a little. "I may not have much child-rearing experience, but what are studies if not other peoples’ experience, laid out for us to learn from? Children, as I understand it, require specific roles from their carers. But it doesn’t matter who those carers are, what gender and the like, as long as the roles themselves are fulfilled, and as long as the needs – love, play, boundary-setting, safety nets, communication – are being met. Two men, two women, or any other non-normative set-up, thrive as parents because their brains adapt to meet the required roles. So one parent will perhaps be more nurturing, while another will expose them to thrills and spills. One will be the stronger disciplinarian, another the one they go to for a soft touch. Rosie will have everything she requires for a stable, loving childhood, because that is the environment she is being brought up in. With you. With us, I hope. You know Gregory is already well accustomed to such tasks. Younger siblings. It does rather help. And God help us all, even Lock is a vital resource for her. Key to the development of mischief and rebellion. It is not just young brains which adapt to fulfill our needs. We fit ourselves to the roles required of us. Her uncles, or however she might choose to label us, will always have her best interests at heart. And we will speak of Mary often, if that is what she needs from us. If that is what you want from us."

John couldn't speak. He had nothing to say. Because here was a gift unlooked for, being so freely given.

"Whatever happens between us, John, I would always ensure her best interests are met. I should like to start a trust fund," continued Mycroft, giving some cover for John's welling emotion. 

"No way. I couldn't let you do that."

"I am offended. You must accept."

John shook his head firmly and waved his hand.

"I don't believe in all that. Inherited wealth. No offence meant, mate, but I don't want her reliant. She has to make her own way in the world," he said with determination.

Mycroft sighed impatiently.

"So she has. So must we all. But her father has to accept that she has friends who wish to help her along. It is not wrong to accept assistance. Life is hard enough, and she is going to be secure for it. I will make certain of that."

John looked up at the resolute face of the British Government at his most persuasive and undeniable. Not a negotiation, then. A decision already made. A  _fait accompli._  As with all Holmes decisions - utterly irreversible and useless to contradict. He sighed, giving in.

“Thus spake the mighty Holmes.”

Mycroft's eyebrow quirked upwards. 

“You don’t believe me?”

John chuckled lightly and ducked his head, self-conscious at his own gratitude. 

“Oh, I believe you, Myc. Believe everything you say.”

"She will be the most protected and adored woman in the world," declared Mycroft, with a satisfied nod.

John shoved him gently. 

"Bugger off, she's going to be the most kick-arse head of the General Medical Council ever."

"I was hoping she might opt for the law."

"Not Prime Minister or Head of the Civil Service?" teased the Doctor. 

Mycroft looked appalled. "Good God, John, I wouldn't wish that on a dog!"

"Mm. Take your point. She's not going near the bloody Service - any of them - I tell you that for nothing."

"No, indeed. But if you tell _her_  that she'll join the Army when she's 16."

Their eyes met and they chuckled together, finding their equilibrium after all.

“Homeward bound?”

John checked the pram. 

“Yeah. She’s asleep.”

“I’m going to develop a complex if she does that every time I speak.”

They walked without haste back to the house. Gregory and Sherlock appeared to have secluded themselves in the living room. They heard low voices coming from behind the closed door.

Mycroft leaned in to eavesdrop, and was pulled away by John's firm hand, into the kitchen. 

"Nope. No surveillance."

Mycroft looked torn. 

"No, I suppose you're right. I just wonder..."

John retrieved his dozing daughter from her vehicle and played his best move.

“Myc, just take her a sec, yeah? Gotta run to the loo.”

Once again the elder Holmes found himself with an armful of gurgling infant as John dashed away in triumph. 

“Oh, really!” he half-heartedly protested.

Rosie blinked awake. She frowned. She went red in the face. 

“Um, hello," attempted Mycroft, carefully. "Pleasant dreams?”

Rosamund Watson couldn't answer that question. Not only because she was pre-verbal. But because she was too busy vomiting. Copiously and violently.  

Mycroft's face registered the profoundest shock, and then the profoundest indignance at the hearty laughter which met his ears.

John stood in the doorway, gleefully taking in the sight of Mycroft Holmes, vanquished and dripping.

“John. I think I've angered her," he confessed, sadly. 

John snorted, and then more sympathetically said, “Oh, bloody hell!” as Rosie went in for another round with great gusto. He did not yet move from his position in the door frame.

“This is cashmere, young lady!" scolded Mycroft, attempting to extricate himself from a truly unpleasant trap, glancing pleadingly at a smirking John. "I shall stop it from your pocket money. When you have pocket money.”

As though understanding his meaning entirely, Rosie started bawling. 

John dashed forwards. “Shit. Sorry! That was a bit too entertaining... Give her here."

Mycroft winced and seemed rather disturbed as the child screamed ever louder. 

“Is she all right?! She’s not ill?”

“Nah, just a milk puke.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. 

“Lovely expression, thank you so much.”

He gently held her out to her father, grimacing as acrid-smelling liquid of the utmost vileness splattered onto his tiled floor.

“I’ll clean her up," said John, holding her against his shoulder. "Oh, you’ve embarrassed your old Dad there, RoRo. Come on, lovely, better out than in...”

As John fussed with wet wipes and cloths, performing some kind of baby juggling trick, Mycroft stripped off his jumper with as much care as he could manage, lest any of  _that_ end up sliding down his neck. He threw the garment into the empty sink with a shudder and stood in his mercifully untainted shirt.

Rosie was calmer now, though still mewling and wiggling in John's arms.

John suppressed an affectionate smirk at Mycroft's rather sorry appearance.

“Not too pissed off?” he teased.

“About having to have a jumper dry cleaned?" mused Mycroft, "No, dear. There are bigger targets for my ire in this world.”

"Good. But she'd like to apologise anyway." 

John bundled his daughter back into his lover's arms, and she fell instantly quiet. Mycroft gently rocked his arms, experimentally.

“I don’t begrudge it, Miss Watson," he said manfully and with all the generosity of spirit he could muster. Because he found he actually didn't. Puzzling though that was. "I believe it to have been an unintentional faux pas. We shall say no more about it. Chatham House Rules, and all that, yes?”

Again he received no answer. Because now she was back asleep. 

“Oh my God. You’re one of those," said John, shaking his head in disbelief.

“One of what?!”

“A baby whisperer. Some people they just take to.”

“I’ve been taken to?” said Mycroft, failing to disguise his baffled pleasure.

“Yep. You’re flavour of the month now. Might have to get you to pop over every bedtime. Look, she’s out like a light. You’ve put a spell on my kid, Holmes. You and your bloody brother.”

“It’s probably just the frequency of my voice. Lock's voice too is very... I imagine an infant might find us quite soothing. Perhaps something in the cologne I’m wearing. Some rational explanation.”

“Or she just likes you.”

“That would seem very odd.”

“No odder than me liking you.”

“No. I suppose not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're reading, subscribing, bookmarking, it means the world and I have not forgotten you! Huge kisses to you all. Please do go to town in the comments. I've missed you! xxx


	12. The Day Together, part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg and Sherlock have a little chat, and Greg has a little realisation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 at last. With Part 3 of smut in the editing and on the way, I swear it.

In the living room Greg and Sherlock suppressed their giggles at the sound of Rosie screaming - though only Sherlock deduced his brother's silent horror and what it inevitably meant. Ah, well. Cashmere was overrated anyway, and Mycie had loads of it to spare.  
  
They exchanged conspiratorial looks, content to be were getting away without participating in the chaos outside, safe in the mutually agreed no-man's-land. For now.  
  
They had sat here since John and Mycroft took their walk. Like them, they hadn't quite known what to say to each when left alone together. Both had taken up a position at opposite ends of the largest sofa - Greg with the paper, Sherlock with his laptop. Clinging to their respective safety nets.  
  
Greg wasn't really reading. Just flicking through paragraphs of football reportage, wondering whether Sherlock intended to tap away all afternoon. The detective had seemed excited earlier. Kittenish and playful, but... Well, it was Sherlock. He'd probably come across some vital thing that needed his immediate Serious Attention. Greg Lestrade knew from bitter experience that you simply didn't interrupt when Sherlock Holmes was Thinking About Something. Shift in power dynamic or not, he was reluctant to aggravate his erstwhile colleague and (he admitted to himself with a thrill) new boyfriend.  
  
Despite their need to 'get to know each other' more intimately, Greg already knew certain things. Like, for example, that Sherlock always made it known if he needed attention. And right now he appeared to be ignoring Greg completely. It was a bit disheartening.  
  
Greg turned another page, wondering when would be an opportune moment to interrupt the sodding genius.  
  
As usual, the sodding genius spared him the bother.  
  
"This isn't fun," Lock snapped suddenly without looking up. He frowned into his computer screen as though seeing something that displeased him.  
  
Greg was puzzled.  
  
"What, boring case?"  
  
"No," huffed the detective. "Boring afternoon! This. Not fun," he said, with such obvious disappointment that it made Greg's heart sink.  
  
"Oh."  _Fuck. Played it wrong_.  
  
"You're supposed to be...," attempted Sherlock, waving his hand in the air. "Why aren't you saying anything? You're supposed to say things!"  
  
Greg scrutinised the somewhat baffled and hurt scowl on the fine-boned pale face as best he could.  
  
"I thought you were working, mate," he said, tentatively.  
  
Sherlock looked appalled.  
  
"Working?! Today?! Not working. Obviously. Just tapping. Couldn't you tell from the sound pattern? I wouldn't work on our day. It's the day. For Stuff. Why aren't we doing Stuff?"  
  
Greg held his hand to the bridge of his nose. OK. So much for sensitivity and patience. Definitely not a sustainable strategy for this one.  
  
"Right. What did you want me to do?" he said, reasonably. So reasonably that Lock nearly blew his top.  
  
"I don't know! That's not my job! Honestly, Lestrade, you're just hopeless!"  
  
Greg bristled and clicked his fingers.  
  
"Oi, you. Put that bloody laptop down and listen."  
  
Sherlock folded his arms with impressive petulance, though his eyebrow gave the briefest flicker of interest at the snappy tone.  
  
"Humph. Too late."  
  
"Is it?"  
  
Greg slid a little closer, holding his hand just above Lock's long, slim thigh. The taller man looked down at it, as though it were some exotic creature he didn't quite trust.  
  
"Maybe," he said, grudgingly, his voice sounding a little vacant all of a sudden.  
  
The hand, with its big square palm and calloused thick fingers, landed.  
  
Lock tried not to flinch. He really tried. He really failed.  
  
Greg smirked in satisfaction as the lad jerked, then caught himself and went completely still. And completely silent. They breathed together in sync for a few seconds.  
  
"Right... Calmer now?"  
  
Sherlock nodded slowly, pale eyes almost black with dilation, boring into Greg's with sparkling clarity.  
  
"Now, then," rumbled Greg, with a smirk. "I'm sorry for leaving you hanging there. But no sulking about it, OK? I'm just getting used to you, and I don't really know what you like."  
  
Sherlock gave a lecherous grin.  
  
"Yes, you do."  
  
Greg snorted, breaking the low intensity of his performance.  
  
"Yeah, well... Plenty of time for that, boy-o. You come here. Fed up of you being over there."  
  
He grappled the lanky detective and propped himself at the end of the sofa. He held Lock's draping form in front of him, back to chest, until the taller man went still again. The moderately restrained position seemed to have an instant calming effect.  
  
"There he is," crooned Greg, in an approving tone that did funny things to Sherlock's insides. "All floppy. Apart from that there..."  
  
Sherlock giggled, blushing as his sudden rather urgent state was noted.  
  
"You do like cuddling, don't you, Lestrade?" he said, deflecting his self-consciousness with mock-indignation.  
  
Greg pecked him on the side of the head.  
  
"Don't Lestrade me. But yeah. Love it. Problem?"  
  
"I'll let you know if it gets too much." 

Lock gave a haughty sniff and wiggled further into the strong arms, pulling them round himself like a blanket.  
  
"Grateful to you. Now then," continued Greg, holding up a finger to prevent further interruption. "I was thinking we could just talk for a bit, but then I thought maybe talking was...boring for you."  
  
Sherlock craned round with a frown.  
  
"Why?"  
  
Greg rolled his eyes. "Because you're not exactly... Well, you can do talking. Listening's usually a bit of an issue though..."  
  
Rather than explode into recriminations, Sherlock considered this a fair statement in need of only minor correction.  
  
"I may on occasion choose not to listen, Gregory. But I hear everything," he said, proudly. "Mycie will tell you that."  
  
Greg chuckled.  
  
"Yeah, I suppose that's right, innit? I was thinking we could have a conversation, but I didn't say so earlier cos thought you might 'pfft' me and do that bloody annoying hand wave thing."  
  
"Pfft. I don't do that," said Lock, doing it.  
  
"You very much do that."  
  
"Greg?"  
  
"Mm?"  
  
"I could ask you questions."  
  
"Oh, an interrogation. Lovely."  
  
"No, just questions! I have questions."  
  
Greg was rather touched by the insistent, hopeful tone. Sherlock Holmes asking questions about him, because he was interested in the answers rather than bored and seeking to provoke. 

"OK," he relented, without bothering to disguise his pleasure. "Ask away, oh Mighty Consulting Prat."  
  
“I'm going to ignore that unimaginative jibe. Just listen and answer. When was your first time?”  
  
Greg sat up a bit at the sudden swerve into personal territory. But really, he wondered what he'd been expecting.   
  
“Oh… OK. We're doing that, are we? Fine. I was sixteen," he explained, matter-of-factly. "One of my Dad’s mates had a daughter, couple of years older. We went out for a few months. Did it in her bedroom when her folks were out. Pretty basic stuff. Lasted all of three minutes.”  
  
Sherlock nodded sagely, with only the slightest tinge of discomfort.   
  
“Ah. Another one initiated into the mysteries of the flesh by a woman."  
  
Greg gave a wry grin.  
  
“Yeah, they really were mysteries an’ all. It was what you were supposed to do back then.”  
  
“So are you bi, then? Like John.” Sherlock tilted his head and wondered whether their calculations had been a little off the mark. “What's the fascination there? We're open-minded, but Mycie and I have never understood the need for a good woman. Or a bad one, come to that. Not outside of the interests of casework, anyhow. All those curvy bits. Nice enough artistically. But rather unfathomable all the same.”  
  
Greg tried not to laugh at Sherlock’s utter perplexity.  
  
“I know. I'm not bi. Bit flexible maybe. But bent as a seven pound note if truth be told. Just took a couple of girlfriends and a marriage to properly admit it.”  
  
“Were you sad when your wife left you?” 

Lock blurted it before he could stop himself.  
  
Greg almost choked as the question pierced his core.  
  
“Bloody hell, love." He cleared his throat and shifted position. 

Sherlock stubbornly refused to move, pressing him more firmly in place with his back.  
  
"Not good?" he checked, because he was  _fairly_  sure it wasn't. But without John there to tell him so, he wasn't  _entirely_  sure.  
  
Greg patted his arm reassuringly.  
  
"Nah, I'm glad you want to know, actually. Probing for emotion though? Bit weird."  
  
Sherlock snorted.  
  
"Yes. Positively abnormal. So? Answer."  
  
Greg sighed a little wistfully, reluctant to open that box. But he comprehended Sherlock’s need to comprehend.  
  
"I was sad, yeah. Cos I did love her, even if I didn’t feel  _that_ way. It was for the best in the end. She was a top bird, but she made it pretty clear she didn't want to speak to me after we separated. Too painful. She was really decent about the divorce though, got to say. Split everything down the middle. We made it easy for each other. Cos we were mates all along, really. She got a nice new straight fella. I moved to Lambeth. Fresh start. And then…”  
  
“Boys," declared Sherlock with supreme cheek.  
  
Greg pinched his arm in retaliation.  
  
“Well, blokes, yeah. Actually, if we’re talking first ever sexual experience of any kind…"  
  
Sherlock practically bounced off the sofa.  
  
"Tell me, tell me!"  
  
Greg chuckled, glad to be moved towards a more pleasant topic. Sherlock was ever the expert in information gathering. With the notable exception of his elder brother, of course. Greg realised in an instant that these were also Mycroft's questions. Questions the rather more sensitive Holmes had perhaps been too polite or shy to ask so early in their relationship. It had been left to Lock to lead secondary investigations.

Lock's lack of emotional savviness was effective, and more than offset by his instinct for an interesting change of direction. Greg hadn't fully appreciated how much coltish charm played a role in his method for extracting data. He realised to his own surprise that he was glad to have the opportunity to revisit some old ground – to share something personal with someone who until fairly recently had seemed so impersonal. No-one had asked these sorts of questions for… Had they ever? 

"There was a lovely lad at my school,” he began, with a bashful grin. 

Sherlock giggled at him and Greg clamped a hand over the broad mouth to prevent it making sarcastic comment, just as John would have done in the circumstances. He felt he was learning new tricks already.  
  
“His name was Nico,” he continued, seeing the lad in his mind’s eye, fresh as day. “Italian family, third generation. As East London as they come. Kissed him behind the school changing rooms a couple of times. Then…bit of hanky-panky on a trip to France one time. Handjobs. Guess we were about fourteen." 

Sherlock hummed and shivered in appreciation as he visualised a teenaged, hormone-addled Greg.  Fourteen-year-old Greg, somewhere in the 1970s, would have worn stonewash jeans and rock band t-shirts, and dirty canvas sneakers. He would have been dark-haired back then, and he would have worn his hair longer. It would have flopped into his eyes. He would have been thinner, shorter, smoother, more wiry, less grizzled but never gawky. Never greasy. He would have been one of those genetically blessed people who'd been a lovely-looking child, then a handsome, clear-skinned teen, then an intensely gorgeous young man. Everyone would say it wasn't fair that Greg never got spots, that his voice hadn't broken in awkward stages, that his limbs and body had stayed proportionate during his growth-spurts.  His eyes wouldn't have changed at all, save for the lack of laughter lines around them. Those soulful brown eyes. They would have loomed larger in an adolescent face. They would have drawn in whoever Greg wanted to draw in at any age.

"He was lush was Nico," sighed Greg, interrupting Sherlock's reverie. "All olive skin and dark eyes. And he never went funny on me. Never hit me like confused boys sometimes do. Never threatened to tell me Dad. He was the first lad I ever heard of who properly came out, when he was in his 20s. Back when it was even tougher than it is now.”  
  
Sherlock twisted round to meet Greg's eye and fluttered his long eyelashes in gentle mockery.  
  
"Is that your type, then? Raven beauties?”  
  
Greg waggled his dark eyebrows and readjusted his arms round the sprawling figure.  
  
“Mm, maybe. My type is whoever I happen to fall for. No particular specifications. Just whoever gets under my skin. Though I like them pale and interesting, more often than not,” he said with a wink. “I like a good talker. Have you noticed? And I like a bold one. A scrapper. Stubborn bastards I like. God help me.”  
  
He smiled at himself, seeing Mycroft and John in his mind’s eye, and wondering just for a second how those stubborn bastards - that particularly good talker and that scrapping hothead - would complement each other in certain scenarios…  
  
Sherlock peered up. “And do you like me too, Greg?” he said, playing deliberately coquettish as he asked the most rhetorical of questions.   
  
Greg glared hotly at him, mostly to see those luminous eyes spark and shift once again, betraying a distinct lack of control. It was a hell of a confidence boost.  
  
“Oh, I do, bonny lad. Very much. Didn’t I say? I like an infuriating clever-clogs, especially ones with arses you could frame. And such a fucking pretty face…"  
  
He bit at Sherlock’s earlobe and the detective shuddered helplessly in his arms. He stretched his long, lily-white neck to coax Greg into nuzzling it. When the stimulation became too frustrating, he rolled fully round so that Greg could clasp him closer. 

An electric thrill ran between them. Their bodies pressed together, seeking each other’s heat, chest to chest. They finally collapsed together for a soft and gentle kiss.  
  
Greg’s toes curled. Sherlock, and his unique smell. His clean alien sweetness. Sherlock's lips caressing his own. Moaning into his mouth. For him.   
  
When he pulled away, Greg felt dazed. The urge to slam the mercurially compliant lad into the sofa and take him apart roiled up from his groin.

Sherlock licked his pouting lips as that thought obviously registered and was all-too-easily deduced.

But… Greg’s determined expression softened in an instant. He realised he was not quite ready to pounce. Not just yet.  
  
"Can I… Can I ask you something?" he murmured.   
  
Sherlock nodded seriously, seeing an expression of mild insecurity so rarely found on the habitually self-assured D.I.’s face. It somewhat unnerved him. Emotions. Men. All still rather odd.  
  
"When did it start?" Greg's voice was uncharacteristically hesitant. "When did you look at me and think ‘yeah, that’s a bit of all right’? Or did your brother talk you round to me?”  
  
Sherlock looked at him in astonishment.  
  
“Don’t be absurd. You…"

He attempted to explain with bemusement.

"I don’t know. You’ve just always been there. When I started working with you. You growled at me. But not… You weren’t horrible. You were… honest. That was different. You smelled right. When I deduced that you could be trusted, I just sort of…” 

Sherlock broke off, puzzled at not being able to clearly account for himself, which inevitably made him irritable.  
  
“Look, I don’t know! It wasn’t like with John. That was fast. Instant. Bang. With you, it was…gradual. A slow fading up of the volume until it seemed like you’d always been there.”  
  
Greg nodded thoughtfully as Sherlock tried to make them both understand it.  
  
Gradual. Yes. It had been gradual. On both sides.  
  
“That’s nice. I think.”  
  
"Whereas you met me and just thought Freak," said Sherlock airily, brushing away the hurt as though it didn’t exist.  
  
Greg paused. Sherlock wondered what he’d said wrong this time. Greg pushed at him until they sat face-to-face, each cross-legged on the sofa.  
  
The brown eyes were wide and filled with something Sherlock couldn’t quite discern – he searched them for clues, seeing only unfathomable depth.  
  
"Do you know when I laid eyes on you, what I thought?” said Greg, in an urgent, compelling voice.  
  
Sherlock shook his head, unable to answer in the face of such astonishing earnestness. Greg held his arms and shook him gently as he tried to make himself clear.  
  
“Saw you – all skinny and stressed - and thought ‘there’s a lad in need of a friend.’ And then ‘there’s the most beautiful boy I’ve ever seen in all my born days…’”  
  
Sherlock was holding his breath now.  
  
“And then…,” continued Greg, ‘there’s the cleverest bloke I’ve ever met, probably the cleverest bloke anybody’s ever met, and bloody hell, how am I supposed to keep up with that?’ Thought you'd never look twice at an old pavement plodder like me. I thought all that. And I still think it.”  
  
Sherlock ran his hand down his lover’s handsome face, trying to smooth out the tinge of uncharacteristic worry which he found there.  
  
“That’s silly, Lestrade,” he said, with gentle irony. “No-one’s supposed to keep up with me. Except Mycie. I don’t need you to try. That’s not why I…want this.”  
  
Greg snorted slightly at the truth of that statement.  
  
“Couldn’t keep up even if I did try. Which I won’t. Only Watson's daft enough to want to. I wouldn’t get off on it like he does. Nah, you don’t need me trying to stay ahead of you, like Mycie. Or running alongside like John. Need me behind you, don’t you? I hope so anyway…”  
  
Sherlock inched forward with suggestive purpose.  
  
“Oh, in all ways, my dear Inspector of the Yard. In all ways.”  
  
“That’s what I thought.”  
  
Greg grinned, relieved. He moved his mouth to within a fraction of the bowlike, upturned pretty - oh, so pretty – lips pushing forth so close to his own.

Sherlock pulled away again, teasing with intolerable smugness.  
  
“Behind me. And on top of me. Anywhere you wish to be, in fact. Including with those two buffoons in the kitchen currently obsessing over what we’re getting up to in here.”  
  
Sherlock gave a little nod of satisfaction and flipped himself round, slumping backwards against Greg with careless abandon. Greg huffed as he was winded yet again by a tangle of overgrown limbs and sharp, bony edges.  
  
“And what are we getting up to in here?” he grumbled, latching onto the man now wriggling against him. “Apart from you running rings around me as usual.”  
  
Sherlock tutted.  
  
“Well, best catch up a bit Inspector, if you intend to get up to anything.”  
  
He flopped back and folded his arms, making it perfectly clear that he had no intention of making another move. Making the first move was beneath him he’d decided, just this very second.  
  
Greg growled a warning and grappled the lanky body up back into a bear hug from behind, just a tiny bit tighter than was strictly comfortable. 

It was perfect.  
  
“What do you see in me, eh?” he said, husky and teasing as Lock writhed against him.

“I like how you make Mycie go all funny. The bits I can’t do.” Sherlock tried to speak matter-of-factly, but it was rather difficult through panting breath and a racing pulse.  
  
Greg smiled fondly behind him and nuzzled into an ear.  
  
“The growly bits?”  
  
“Yes, those." The dark curls bounced in affirmation. "I like how you are with John too. The talky bits. You share a language Holmeses can’t understand.”

Greg’s hands slipped underneath the shirt, caressing the smooth plane of muscle beneath, and the soft, honeyed flesh.  
  
“Oh, aye? Common as muck, thick as two planks?”  
  
Sherlock frowned to himself, thinking that an odd reaction.  
  
“No..." He broke off distractedly. "Nipples, Greg, do the nipples…” 

Greg chuckled and obeyed, pinching and tickling at the hardened nubs under the thin cotton. 

Lock sighed contentedly. “You are plain-speaking. You use normal man words, and know normal man things in general. You’re not a goldfish. We wouldn’t fuck goldfish.”  
  
Not for the first time, Greg almost bit his own tongue at Sherlockian shock-value. Hearing either of the usually well-to-do Holmes boys swear was a novelty that was not going to wear off. It could fast become a new kink. He pinched both of the taut little nipples simultaneously, somewhere between approval and reproach.

“Is that a compliment? Normal?”  

Lock gasped at the stimulation through his chest, and let it race down to fill his cock.  

“Yes, it is a compliment. Obviously. Are you in love with Mycroft?" he asked, in one swift exhalation.

“Bloody hell, Lock!”  
  
Greg’s head was spinning at the twists and turns of Sherlock in wrong-footing mode, though it did nothing to deflate his hard-on. No wonder the perpetrators of nefarious crime all confessed in the end. Being interrogated with such lightning randomness was exhausting, and he hadn’t even done anything wrong. 

He relinquished his hold and foreplay temporarily ceased.

"Sherlock, I can’t just..."  
  
"You are," came the triumphant reply. “Definitely.”  
  
Greg stammered as much of the truth as he could bring to mind at the present moment.  
  
"I'm... I bloody adore Mycroft, you know that…”  
  
Sherlock shrugged and did his hand wave thing.  
  
"You love him."  
  
"I feel close to him. I find him..."  
  
"Haha, you love Mycie and Mycie loves you, so there!” crowed an increasingly mischievous Lock, revelling in making Greg cringe.  
  
He span round again to admonish the reticence, and caught Greg’s rather ponderous expression. He scowled.  
  
“If you deny it I will have to fight you with a rapier, Gregory Lestrade. So don’t bother! Honestly, I don’t know why you’re so silly about it. Only a complete moron would fail to be in love with Mycroft Holmes when he really knew him. And you are not one, as we have established. John’ll get there, I know,” he mused, "he’s just a bit distracted by me at the moment. But who can blame him? We’ll swap and stuff, it’ll be fine…”  
  
As Sherlock babbled weird truths, Greg felt his face heating. The clang of recognition smacked him upside the head. Smitten, he’d known he was. Head over heels, he’d acknowledged to himself quite happily. In love? Yeah. That pretty much nailed the diagnosis. In love, but cautious about confessing it, despite knowing that Mycroft was for some reason completely gone for him already.  
  
In love, and no going back now.  
  
Nothing was going back to how it was. Nothing was ever, ever going to be the same ever,  _ever_ again. The rush of it made him dizzy, made him want to jump for joy. Revelation. Not friendly sex; not a kinky scene; not even much to do with power and play, or with domination and submission, or discipline and reward, nor even pleasure and pain. This, this complete weirdness was not a way to pass the aftermath of a rotten few years. It was not simply an unconventional romantic arrangement, the future of which they’d gradually work out, and be very sensible about next steps and boundaries, and build up their bonds with careful consideration… No. No. This was IT. All of it. All of them.  
  
Greg knew in that moment that he was all in. All. In. Completely committed to it all, above and beyond, running headlong into certainty.  
  
Oh, he was in love all right.   
  
In love with Mycroft and his mighty brain, his quick wit and quiet power, and his endearing social limitations. In love with Johnnyboy’s fulsome heart, his stubborn heroism, and every last scrap of his emotional baggage. And in love with insufferable, brilliant, exhausting bloody Lock, with all his demons and magic, and his unstoppable, blurting, truth-telling mouth.

They were his. All his. His three blokes, and that precious baby girl who kept more than one of them going.  
  
Nevertheless, it didn’t do to let Holmeses get too cocky about being unfailingly right. He’d tell them in his own bloody time, thanks.   
  
"Don't be a dickhead," he commanded, letting his blissful smile sound through in his voice. He suspected he’d be saying that a lot now. Like Watson. But he’d say a lot more besides. These men would know how he loved them in word and deed. Greg Lestrade was not a man who withheld himself. Caring had always been his greatest advantage.  
  
Sherlock’s hand waved overtime now as he breezed past and missed the deep affection in the tone.  
  
"I may be a dickhead, Lestrade, but I am correct. That is my thing, you know."  
  
Greg snuggled up, desperately in need of intimacy now.  
  
"Don’t I know it? Do you ever get tired of it, you and that brother of yours?" he said, kissing the long, pale neck of this man he loved.  
  
“We do not,” said Sherlock, dreamily. “Mycie and I are quite happy to bear the burden of our omniscience. We are in every respect secure in our rightness. We’ve had some time to get used to being right about you...”  
  
“Yeah, that happens if you spy on people for years...”  
  
Sherlock’s baritone seemed to drop to his boots.  
  
“Spy? Survey is a more neutral term. But we had our imaginations too. We used to  _fantasise_ about you. A great deal. In terrible,  _disgraceful_ detail…”  
  
Greg gasped in delight.  
  
“You bloody never!”  
  
Sherlock grinned his most feline and toothy of grins.  
  
“Oh, yes we did. On the phone. In person. In bed. When we were fucking...”  
  
“Jesus Christ.” The D.I.’s voice was hoarse. “Go on, boost an old man’s ego. Fantasise how? Don’t leave it at that!”  
  
Sherlock smirked in victory at having riled his partner so effectively. He felt the hard evidence of it at his lower back and gave a little thrust back with his backside, to offer encouragement.

Greg groaned helplessly as his prick was rubbed against lush cheeks.  
  
“Well…,” husked Sherlock, rocking back and forth ever so slightly, feeling himself twitch and jerk in response to Greg’s obvious excitement. “We’d tell each other what we wanted you to do… We deduced your techniques and preferences. We’d touch ourselves about you. Sometimes… Yes, sometimes one of us would pretend to  _be_ you. Not speaking. Just… a hand, a finger, a mouth, a cock… In silence. Mycie would imagine you while I was inside him. I’d do the same. We’d think about John. With you. About one of us watching you fucking the other. Or having you between us, or watching you have John. Oh, Greg, the best ones…the best ones were when we imagined both of you having both of us, one after the other, or at the same time, making us fight for your huge…”  
  
Greg moaned in a high pitch he failed to recognise as his own. He was leaking in his pants now. He was light-headed with want.  
  
“Oh. My. God. I was a Holmes wank fantasy…,” he whispered almost to himself.  
  
Sherlock turned and pressed his forehead to the older man’s, fixing him with a mesmeric blue glare.  
  
“Yes, Greg. You were. But you're a wank  _reality_  now.”

The air hung thickly between them until neither man could wait a second longer.  
  
Sherlock squeaked as he was roughly tackled and pulled at with demanding hands. At last.   
  
“Get your clothes off right bloody now!” demanded Greg, yanking at the stupid,  _stupid_  shirt until the buttons flew off with satisfying popping sounds.  
  
Two sets of rather shaky hands stripped a vast quantity of too-many clothes off and up and over the sofa, flinging them everywhere, until two naked bodies writhed together - one pale and smooth, spry and rangy; the other tanned and furred, square and muscular.  
  
Greg pinned Lock beneath him in a trice, holding his wrists and squeezing him with his thighs. He loomed over him with bestial possessiveness. 

The rakish glint in his eye and that vulpine grin hit Sherlock where it counted.  
  
“Gosh, you’re dishy,” he said breathlessly. Then cringed as Greg guffawed at him. “Inner monologue failure.”

“That’s the poshest thing I’ve ever heard from a naked bloke, love." Greg did not relent from his hold for a second. He winked. “And I’ve fucked your big brother.”  
  
Sherlock’s laugh was cut off by a sudden gasp as Greg kissed his way down his body, nibbling and licking, indulging in his firm flesh.  
  
“You’re lovely, so bloody lovely…,” he was murmuring, and kissing madly everywhere.  
  
When Greg neared his straining prick, Sherlock pulled up with a tiny intake of breath.  
  
Greg heard it as the plea it was. A definite stop signal. He knelt up, sensing something wrong and praying it wasn’t something he’d done, or not done.  
  
“Too much?”  
  
Sherlock bit his lip and shook his head, seeming a bit embarrassed all of a sudden.  
  
“Greg, can we…," he whispered.  
  
Greg frowned, unsure what was being asked of him. Then it dawned.  
  
"Go and get them? John, Mycie?"  
  
Sherlock nodded uncertainly but said nothing, feeling a bit silly. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Greg, or want to do this alone with him. He did. A lot. A very  _very_ lot. But for the first time... First times, of late, had been shared occurrences. He needed the symmetry.  
  
Greg understood. Because that was what Greg did.  
  
"Yeah, course, love. Need them here, don’t you? Then it’s all square.”  
  
Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief.  
  
“Yes. For the…first time, at least.”  
  
“However you want it, love. Don’t even have to –“ he began, offering the out.  
  
Sherlock looked incredulous at the merest hint of the tiniest suggestion that he wanted to wait an iota of a fraction of a second longer for this to happen.  
  
“Don’t try and wiggle out of it, Lestrade! I want it! I just need it to be even!”  
  
"All right, don't scratch me!" exclaimed Greg, as he was clawed at. 

Sherlock struggled to push him off to go and do his bidding.  
  
"Lestrade!" he whined, pouting and rolling his eyes. “Don’t just sit on me like a great lump. Do something!”  
  
Greg smirked and extracted himself, reluctant to leave the warmth of that long soft-hard body.  
  
"All right, all right, I'm going. Just watch those nails, you,” he said, pointing a mock-stern finger. “You're not too big."  
  
Sherlock sat up indignantly.  
  
"What does that mean?!"  
  
"It means, my lad, that you're not too big to go across my knee."  
  
Sherlock chuckled even as he blushed.   
  
"I am. But that doesn't mean I shouldn't."  
  
Greg snorted.  
  
"No, it doesn't, does it? Already bloody begged me to. You'll get what's coming to you, Sunshine."  
  
"That was Mycroft who begged you!" protested Lock with his most brattish toss of the head.  
  
"Same difference, isn't it?"  
  
Sherlock never contradicted accurate statements.  
  
"In a great many ways, yes. Why are you still here?! Go and get them before one of us dies of old age! And it wouldn’t be me…"  
  
Greg ignored the jibe, tutted and bounded to the door, feeling appreciative eyes on his backside as he went.  
  
He found their partners in the kitchen, still chatting over tea. Rosie, mercifully was back in her cot, sleeping off the excitement of socialising with Uncle Mycie.  
  
Twin gawps met his nude state. He had the distinct impression of jaws hitting the floor. It was very flattering.  
  
“Can we help you, Gregory?” mumbled Mycroft weakly, taking in the broad furry chest, dusky nipples, the arms, and lower...  
  
“No, seriously,  _can_  we?!” laughed John, springing to his feet and clapping his hands together now the afternoon was taking the dirty turn he knew it would.  
  
Greg cocked his head and wagged his thumb towards the living room.  
  
“Dunno. Could probably give it a go, couldn’t you? Prince Charming wants company.”  
  
Mycroft gave a small smile of recognition.  
  
“Baby brother does so like things to be in the correct order. The completing of patterns. I am minded to agree. Come, Dr Watson. Let us see if we can’t make up a four.”  
  
They hastened away, undoing collars and belt buckles as they went.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lovely splendid people, do please chat to me below if you're still reading. It's been far too long and I miss you! xx


	13. Coming Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Symmetry is a thing. 
> 
> The boys finally understand one another, body, mind, and soppy sentiment.

Sherlock, to absolutely no-one’s surprise, was reclining in all his naked glory, arms above his head as though expecting worshippers.

He was not disappointed. For here they were, all three of them. The only ones who counted.

Mycroft fixed his exultant little brother with a mock-stern glare, failing utterly to disguise the way his breath caught at the sight of him. It always had and it always would.

“Hmm. What have we here? Have you been behaving yourself for Gregory, dearest?”

“Impeccably, actually,” Lock replied haughtily, then wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Eurgh, you smell of Rosie vomit!"

Mycroft opened his mouth to protest, then bit his lip in consternation.

"I... Do I?"

Greg frowned and kissed the elder Holmes reassuringly.

"No, doll, you don't. Lock, stop winding your brother up."

“Yeah,” chimed John, “and stop slandering my baby. She’s a puke factory, but she cleans up a treat. And so does Myc.”

Mycroft tutted disapprovingly at all this nonsense.

“Could we possibly get back to the matter of the moment, gentlemen?”

“Oh yeah, love, sorry,” said Greg, sweetly. Then less sweetly: “Lock. Come here.”

Sherlock shrugged with saucy defiance.

"Or what, Lestrade?"

Mycroft shook his head with toleration. "So transparent, dear.”

"Well, I haven't the patience for subtlety anymore! Lestrade’s been dying to get me over his lap all afternoon, but he was actually being _nice_ to me. Honestly, what a waste of time."

" _You_ haven’t got the patience?!” exclaimed Greg in outrage. “Come here, cheeky little cocktease... Lestrading me when I've told you not to...”

Sherlock gleefully rolled over onto his stomach and let Greg manhandle him over his knee, peachy bottom upturned at last.

John held up a hand and they went still. He padded over, planted a kiss on one plump arsecheek, and winked up at Greg.

"Give him what for, mate," he said, and retreated with a grin.

Sherlock yipped with outrage and gratitude, kicking his legs in protest and pleasure. Ambivalence was just so much fun for body and mind.

"John, how could you?!" he wailed, theatrically.

Greg rumbled low in his chest, raised his hand high, and delivered a little lesson in not winding up D.I. Lestrade when he’s horny and a bit on the back foot. Nothing too harsh. Just a nice erotic spanking between newly-acquainted lovers.

"Mycie, help!" Lock squealed, enjoying every second of the full attention of the assembled company as his bum bounced under Greg’s gloriously playful, though still very hard, ministrations.

"I rather think not.”

Mycroft smirked with utter satisfaction as Gregory took baby brother to task so fondly and thoroughly.

The smirk faded to a faraway stare as the raw sexuality of the scene hit home. Lock's pinkening flesh draped over Gregory's muscular frame. The perfect balance of mastery and submission. All on display for him - and in part because of him. It was heady stuff.

Lock caught his eye momentarily and blew him a little kiss, before rearing up at a particularly punishing whack.

They smouldered.

John merely shook his head and stripped his pants off while his boyfriend screeched and wailed to his heart’s content. When the sounds shifted from extravagant howls to little whimpers - underscored by the low humming of a very contented Greg - he turned his attention to the slack-jawed elder Holmes, who watched over them all like a man transfixed.

"Myc... Here," he said softly, beckoning him over.

Mycroft did not seem to hear at first, but then shook himself and glanced up.

"Hm? Oh," he breathed, at the come-hither look of a Watson in the mood for seduction.

John smirked as Mycroft was compelled towards him, stupefied. The Doc gazed up at the flushed face and patted the high cheek as though testing his consciousness levels in A&E.

Without a word, John pulled their bodies together. Mycroft's long prick slipped upwards on his stomach; his own glanced a little lower against Mycroft's, leaving wet trails over each other's heated skin. They moaned in unison. Then, after a tantalising pause, they seized each other, and their mouths clashed in passion until their legs gave way and they fell kissing onto soft cushions.

An external observer would not know which of the two large sofas to look at.

Interesting things were happening on both, separated only by a coffee table and a pile of shirts, jumpers and pants.

On one, Mycroft and John were snogging with ardent intensity, running their hands over each other with firm, needy strokes, intent on learning the new terrain of their bodies in this more intimate way.

This wasn’t like the threeway fucks or the shared voyeurism of recent months. It wasn't the newness of attraction making itself known. This was a deeper passion, and a more complete respect. Something had shifted to allow this vulnerability with each other. To allow them to progress from 'everything but' to 'everything now'. It wasn't a peremptory shag for the sake of anyone but themselves. It was lovemaking. Both could sense the change.

On the other sofa, Sherlock and Greg seemed to be wrestling each other, gnashing and snarling, thrashing together like otters in a torrent.

In one fell swoop, Greg flipped Lock onto his back and pulled him by the calves until gangling legs lay over his shoulders.

Lube manifested out of the coffee table drawer, carefully placed by the ever-prepared master of the house. It changed hands like a round of Pass The Parcel at a particularly filthy birthday party.

The much-vaunted symmetry was achieved. Shapes aligned into perfect patterns.

"Oh, Greg!" moaned Sherlock, as he was prepared on a slick, wet finger.

"Oh, John!" groaned Mycroft on the opposite sofa, as he was sucked down in one long slide.

“Oh, Lock,” panted Greg, as he pressed in and out of the tight heat.

“Oh, Myc...” whispered John, coming up for air.

Each man was quadruply focused on his own pleasure, his partner's, and the opposing couple’s.

Their brains scrambled as they sensed and heard each others' arousal - the room became a cacophony of moans, squelches, and the rhythmic slapping of flesh.

Pheromones rose into the air; the sweet combined essence of sweat and spunk, which only added to their collective, mutual need.

Events moved swiftly when the four of them frolicked together, evidently. They lost all sense of time and space, intent only on wringing as much enjoyment out of themselves as possible.

Greg and Sherlock's sofa was thumping the floorboards now. Sherlock hooked his legs more firmly over the broad shoulders and pressed his lover in with his heels.

“Watch me, watch me…,” he was mumbling.

All eyes turned to witness Greg’s thick cock disappearing into his pink puckered opening.

There were gasps. There were deep, wrecked groans.

Sherlock heard his own disembodied voice howl at the added stimulation of their vision. He felt it burn him like a brand, every bit as intimate as Greg's prick stretching him inside, piercing him through for the first time.

They made the final connection, hitting the depths of physical devotion.

Greg was in heaven. His face was a picture of debauchery and inexpressible want as he was engulfed to the hilt.

He gazed down in wonder. It wasn't Sherlock Holmes under him. No. It was Lock. His Lock. Pliant and open. Completely trusting of him to do whatever his body required.

He pushed in further and they rocked together in a passion, building up speed, and consistency. The first of many.

John and Mycroft's item of furniture was now in danger of overbalancing.

Mycroft was kneeling and bent over one sofa arm, spreading himself eagerly and unabashedly, head turned to the side to watch his lover and his brother copulating like teenagers.

Behind him, John was ravenously determined, pushing his thick fingers into the older man in mimicry of Greg's every thrust. Because what one Holmes had, the other must have. What one felt, the other felt. And he wanted to participate in that, and make that happen for them again and again.

"Look at that, Myc," he husked with self-conscious tease. "Look at Greg spreading baby brother, like he spread you... And now here's me, doing to you what I usually do to Sherlock..."

Mycroft cried out in unbearable agony, his hard-on weeping clear fluid. He was so humiliatingly close to coming from visuals and audibles and olfactory stimulation, let alone the intensity of slick doctor's fingers playing with his sensitised prostate.

Watson had thrown down the dirty talk gauntlet.

Lestrade picked it up.

“Listen to me, Lock," he said, loud enough for all to hear, projecting over exclamations and moans.

Lock gazed up at him with wide-eyes, all flushed eager-to-please adorableness now he was getting exactly what he wanted.

Greg carried on fucking him harder with every sentence, panting through the words.

"Want you to sear this into that crazy fucking Mind Palace of yours. Cos I know you can, can’t you? Whenever you look at me, at the Yard, in the street, when we have to pretend to be colleagues again… Can’t have people whispering, can we? Want you to remember _this_. Right here."

He plunged his cock in more forcefully and kept it there, pulsing and pushing.

"Want you to feel me in you when you look at me. Me fucking you, just like this. That way you won’t pretend to forget my name again, will you?”

Sherlock shook his head frantically and gripped the backs of his own thighs to let himself be penetrated deeper.

“No, Graham."

Greg jerked against him harder and he half-snorted, half-squealed.

"Oof! No, won't forget. Greg. Sir...”

Greg stopped thrusting for a nanosecond.

“Sir?!" he grinned. "Bloody wonders never cease."

He resumed. Sherlock was ready to fall apart completely. And ready to beg for it.

"Greg, oh, fuck, Greg, please! Want to come, let me come!"

Mycroft and John made their agreement with this sentiment known, though not in any coherent known language.

Greg slowed his pace.

"No. Not yet. Nobody comes yet...!" he panted, wondering what the hell he was playing at.

"Fuck off! I can go twice...!" protested John, who had only just started giving Mycroft exactly what his little brother was getting.

Greg tutted.

"Play the game, Watson."

"Fucksake... Spunk Nazi..."

"Mm. L'tle bit of edging. S'nice."

Bickering during sex was a new one for non-Holmeses.

Inevitably, someone would have to win.

Thoughts percolated until one mucky mind triumphed over all.

“Want to race them, Lestrade?” leered John, like a man who owned a stable of beautiful boys. Because he bloody did. "Holmes versus Holmes?"

Greg's chuckle was pure filth.

“Last one to finish wins?”

“Yeah. Winner gets the beers in. But last one of them to come gets to lick up the mess."

“OK," said Greg, casually, slipping out of Sherlock with a little intake of breath.

He indicated to the rather stunned Holmes brothers.

"You heard the Doc, you two. Up you get. Hands on the table. Bending over. Facing each other, and kissing while we fuck you together. Just like you've been wanking about all this time, apparently.”

"I bloody knew it...," chuckled John, as two rather stunned rangy bodies stumbled up and did as they were told for once.

Two pairs of elegant hands placed themselves flat on the table. And two pairs of moody eyes met in the middle.

Thin, almost cruel lips turned up at the edges.

Plump, almost babyish lips pouted forwards with a tongue placed between them for added appeal.

"Well," said the elder Holmes, in a dark, sardonic tone.

"Well," replied the younger, deep voice vibrating in his chest.

"The things one find oneself doing of late."

"All the things."

A hot, sudden hiss of desire. "Baby boy."

A passionate, strained answer. "Big brother mine."

Then together. Fiercely. Possessively.

"Ours."

"Ours."

The Holmes brothers sealed their obsession with each other as they were mounted from behind by the men they adored.

Their mouths met. Savagely. Desperately. And then their hands moved across the distance to grasp at each other's rock hard pricks. They leaned on each other's shoulders with their free arms, bracing and holding themselves upright in sinful fraternal support.

Symmetry indeed.

From over their long, pale spines, two perfectly ordinary blokes exchanged gazes of the utmost certainty. No ironic lifting of eyebrows. No smirks. Deadly serious. Completely, quite literally in.

Without breaking eye contact, they resumed their tirade of affectionate obscenity as they galloped the Holmeses to the finish.

“Loved watching me fuck your big brother, didn’t you?" said Greg to his youngest lover, recalling the voyeur in the ceiling who had crashed into his life mere days ago. "How I smacked his arse red. How he fucked back onto me like a right little tart, just like you’re doing. Such lovely tight lads, the pair of you.”

Sherlock was beyond speech, merely locking eyes with Mycroft as he was filled and ridden. How they revelled in these words and sensations together…

"Loved watching me shove it in your John too, making him shout…," said Greg, reciting, chanting. “And now look at your big brother, watching you. Johnnyboy balls deep up his arse... Ooh, right there, love... Yeah, got my eye on you too, Mycie Holmes.”

But Mycroft was elsewhere. Gone to wherever he went when his brain collapsed under erotic assault.

“Watch!" demanded Greg. "Watch me fuck your baby brother, Mycroft. Watch me!”

Pale eyes flew open and watched. Behind them, hazel irises hooded with lust glimmered at the extraordinary sight. And below Greg's frantically cantering hips, craning round to meet his gaze - a pair of magic, quicksilver orbs suffused with need.

Eyes and eyes and eyes.

And bodies moving together in sync, thrusting and jerking and rolling.

Arms moved frantically, legs bent at the knees. Thighs shook with strain, and hands slammed down onto the coffee table. Hips were gripped, and backsides wobbled deliciously as they were pistoned in and out of by rigid, penetrating flesh.

John’s hand and Greg’s hand, leaving the comfort of sharp hip bones, reached out for each other over two long backs. They slapped together and clung on to each other, pulling and pushing as they fucked.

It hardly seemed to matter who touched whom now. It was all one touch. One tangle of limbs, one matrix of sex.

“Oh, shit, Myc, clench down, yeh… Fuck, Lock, never told me he was this tight…!”

“Fuckfuckfuck,” cursed the elder Holmes, allowing his basest self to show through. It seemed apropos. Now was not the time for self-censorship.

Holmesian eyes stayed locked together as they masturbated each other in time to the stimulation they felt inside -  teasing, daring each other to climax first. Each felt the familiar hot swell of the other’s crown slipping against the pads of their palms. Each tuned in to the burning pressure inside the other, experiencing it for themselves bodily and mentally.

Sherlock sensed Greg reaching his limit.

“No, no… Want to keep going. Do everything, now now…”

“Oh, sweet boy. We’re going to do fucking everything. Everything. Always. All…of…us…!”

With a mighty, shattering roar, Greg came. His cock filled, it twitched, and surged forth his orgasm deep into Lock's gut.

_One._

Greg stayed seated inside, still half-hard and pushing out the final few beads of semen. He felt Lock tighten as he got closer. Then he heard Mycroft bellow, and John moan.

Names filled the air. Combinations of familiar syllables swirled around each other making new patterns of sound.

Johnmygregshercroftlock...

John's voice climbed an octave as suddenly he was over the cliff. His compact body spasmed from toe to tip as he shoved the last of himself inside the lax body bending before him.

_Two._

And on cue, hearing Sherlock’s counting in his own head, Mycroft let himself sink into sensory overload. He shuddered as Greg’s aftershocks and John’s pulsations triggered his own powerful orgasm, right into his brother’s hand.

_Three._

Only after all his lovers had spent themselves empty did Lock allow his own release. His climax, when it came, hit him like a train.

Strands of viscous white flew outwards from him in a jet, and his vision blurred at the immensity of the headrush. Colours wafted around him. Red, orange, purple. White.

He collapsed forwards, knocked off his feet by it. Saved, predictably, by Greg from behind, and Mycroft in front, supported by John.

“ _Four!_ ” he gasped, as the blood rushed in his ears and his cock throbbed into the air. “Fourfour _four_!”

Completion. Resolution. Like a case solved. He flew. 

After a respectful silence during which hardly a muscle was moved, giggling began. Because it just had to.

John grinned across at Sherlock and Greg as he pulled out of Mycroft’s well-used, dripping hole.

“Always a pleasure, lads,” he said, chuckling hysterically in the buzz of his aftershocks, vibrating with euphoric hormones. He ran a lubey hand through his sweaty hair, making it stick up crazily.

Mycroft groaned and stood, working out the crick in his back with a wince. Greg echoed his movements opposite.

Sherlock merely flopped onto the cool surface of the table, replete and temporarily quietly ecstatic. 

"Symmetrical enough for you?” smirked Greg. “Or parallel, or whatever it was you needed?"

Mycroft snorted a chuckle.

"Oh, very much. It is rather crucial."

"Oh aye?"

"Yes. Symmetry, after all, is the marker of beauty. It is what we mean when we say something is beautiful. Symmetry is sublime, my darling. Mirror images, rotations, lines and angles. We have created patterns. The geometry of love."

"Don't understand a word of it. But just assume I agree, yeah?"

"That would probably be for the best."

Sherlock made an obscene noise, coming back to life after his _petit mort_.

“Ignore him, the pair of you. My brother becomes distressingly lyrical after fantastic sex.”

John grabbed a box of tissues from under the table, and began wiping up the rather impressive mess which adorned the British Government.

"Look at that! Myc, you’re all splattered!"

Mycroft saw that he was. All over the fronts and backs of his thighs. He cringed as he became aware of cold congealing stickiness.

Lock was victorious.

"Ha. Shot you! And stop with the tissues. I was last to come, I get to lick it."

"Disgusting little beast."

"Oh, don't fuss. You’ve had worse."

“I’ve had _better_ , darling. Compulsive disorder or no compulsive disorder, some messes are worth the trouble. We shall experiment with exactly how much can be wrung from four.”

“Filthy Mycie!”

Sherlock scrambled eager to his feet and knelt behind his brother. 

Mycroft flushed as he bent, and Sherlock set to work, lapping at him back, then front, with his hot, kittenish tongue. He tasted himself and John combined on his brother's tangy flesh. Greg, unwilling and unable to be left out, moved behind him and scooped his own semen from Lock's loosened pucker.

With limpid eyes, Sherlock sucked it from his fingers reverently, gratefully. Greg brought his sucked finger to his own lips and kissed it.

The air thickened with tension once more, dissipating only when every last drop of fluid had been consumed or otherwise dealt with.

“Bloody perverts,” said John, happily.

No-one contradicted the sentiment.

***

After a respectable interval, tea was had. Because post-shag tea was almost as lovely as post-shag cuddling, which was also happening. They had set the room to rights, though nobody bothered to get dressed.

They bathed together in their bright mutual glow, all flopped onto sofas like Roman orgy-goers after last orders. Four men, as relaxed as they had ever been. More relaxed than they had ever thought possible; comfortable in their quiet companionship. 

After a while, dribs and drabs of chat emerged. Post-shag inconsequential chat was also unfailingly lovely, they decided.

John, apparently unable to turn his mind from sex, asked a 'getting to know you' question.

“What’s the most unusual place you and Lock have done it?” 

Mycroft shrugged.

"Nowhere especially unusual. Once when we were at home for a ghastly New Year's Eve party... In my old bedroom at Musgrave."

"You fucked in your childhood bed?!” exclaimed Greg, wondering why he was surprised. “Kinky bastards."

"Mummy and step-father were asleep in the East Wing, but we had to be rather sneaky," confessed the elder Holmes, with his customary 'man of the world' insouciance.

Lock chuckled gleefully, then sulked as he remembered the occasion more fully.

"I wanted to drug them, but Mycie said no. Spoilsport."

“I certainly will spoil any sport which involves rendering innocent people unconscious. We don’t want a recurrence of that little phase.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “No, you don’t, dear.”

"Oh, well, there was the time we attempted it on the private jet," recalled Mycroft, suddenly hitting upon a more interesting anecdote. "On a spontaneous jaunt to Vienna. It was unforgivably soppy, but Lock wanted to go to the Josephinum, a medical museum with the second finest collection of wax anatomical models in the world. So I whisked us there for an afternoon.”

“Only the second finest?” teased John.

“The first is in Florence, and I took him there for his fourteenth birthday.”

“Private jet," mused Greg, picturing it with interest. "Joined the mile high club, did you?”

“Mycie was sick afterwards!"

Mycroft scowled as he was informed upon, but Lock simply stuck out his tongue.

"He’ll tell you otherwise, but Mycroft Siger Holmes is a simply rotten traveller.”

“There was turbulence! You were bouncing with quite unnecessary violence. I simply can’t do it in moving vehicles, Lock. You know I've a delicate constitution and quite possibly an inner ear problem."

"No, you haven't! You're fine in helicopters!"

Mycroft tilted his head.

"Yes. Though I have never rogered you in a helicopter. Or have I...? One loses track."

Sherlock sat up sharply.

"No, one ruddy doesn't. You know you've never rogered me in a helicopter. Why haven't you? You must!"

Mycroft waved a hand. "I shall give it some thought. But perhaps it won't be you who has the pleasure, spoiled brat that you are. I have a feeling John might enjoy..."

"Yep. Please. Defo." said John, instantaneously. Helicopter shag was definitely on the To Do list. Along with everything bloody else.

Lock was outraged. "What about me and Greg?!"

"You can have a bloody threesome if you like,” scoffed the man in question. “Not getting me in a fucking propellered death-trap for a cheap thrill. I'll get mine on the ground without the risk of death. Or projectile puking. Why has this whole day been so pukey? What's wrong with you all?!"

He broke off with a sudden loud yawn.

“Oh, blimey. Knackered now. Naptime, boys, yeah?”

“Yes,” agreed Mycroft, catching the yawn, which then travelled round the room. “We really do seem to have spent a disproportionate amount of time copulating on sofas these last few days.”

“Yours hasn’t got a mark on it!” said Greg, incredulously and with not a little envy at the pristine upholstery.

“So it would seem. Fortunate, really. It was ruinously expensive, and semen does not come out of suede with ease. Don’t ask me how I know that...”

They repaired to the bedroom, and curled around each other to snooze en masse once again, fully expecting to be woken by Rosie within minutes of lying down. Thankfully she seemed to think it wise to allow them a little time off for bad behaviour.

"N'night, my loves," yawned Greg, cuddling up to whoever had ended up nearest, which happened to be John.

"It's afternoon," corrected the pedant-in-chief, Sherlock Holmes.

Greg clicked his tongue.

"Yeah. It wasn't the time of day I was trying to draw your attention to."

"Oh."

 _Love_. Right. 

Everyone seemed to be holding their breath.

“Yeah,” confirmed Greg, softly, eyes closed, in case this was badly-judged dodgy territory.

“Mycie?” rumbled Sherlock, helpfully.

“Yes, dear heart?”

“Gregory loves you.”

“I…”

Greg propped himself up on his elbow and looked over John and Sherlock to find Mycroft’s eyes.

“Yep. That’s a fact. You like those, don’t you? And before you question it, when’s your brother ever wrong, eh?”

Mycroft looked stunned. And suspiciously wobbly round the mouth.

He reached out a long, slim arm towards his silver-haired lover. His elegant hand was grasped and squeezed in a rather more calloused paw.

Below them, John and Sherlock giggled and made retching sounds. They were as ignored as they deserved to be.

“I you also, Gregory. As you know,” Mycroft stumbled, blushing furiously.

His face burned, but his heart soared at the answering, clear-eyed nod of affirmation from his beloved.

“And John loves me,” stated Lock, for the superfluous record. “And Mycie obviously loves me, and I obviously love Mycie…"

"Yes, dear."

"But Greg…?” Lock sat up, frowning at the sudden missing piece.

Greg let go of Mycroft’s hand, and ruffled the detective’s shaggy curls.

“Well, I must love you, if I love your brother, mustn’t I, eh? Doesn’t that stand to reason? What with you being two halves of the same massive ego, or whatever it is you say you are.”

John laughed and was spooned into by the elder Holmes from behind.

“Yes,” said Lock, satisfied that the answer was indeed logical. “It does stand to reason.”

Greg nodded adamantly. “Good. Don’t want to hear anymore arguments about it then.”

"No. Fine."

Lock accepted a slow, deep kiss then burrowed back down somewhere in the middle of his pile of men. He wiggled contentedly.

“Gre-e-e-g?” came a wheedling voice, just as it seemed everyone was ready to drop off.

“Yes, mate?”

John smirked.

“Love you, babe.”

“Oh, fuck off! Pisstaking little wanker!”

John ducked as a pillow was lobbed into face. He rolled onto his front, unable to control his laughter.

“What? It’s sweet! All loved up and soppy.”

The bed became a hive of sudden energy.

Greg battered the infuriating git with the pillow as hard as he could.

“Seriously, Watson, fuck right off or I’ll say it to you properly! I'll bring you flowers, I'm warning you.”

“Bloody hell, anything but that!”

A small scuffle ensued. Kicks were aimed and dodged. Positions were swapped. Energy dipped, and a human heap was formed.

“Love you really, Johnnyboy,” said Greg, with a teasing grin in his voice.

“Back atcha, mate. Love. Whatever. Just go to sleep. Lestrade. Too much nookie's gone to your head.”

Silence fell. 

But not for long.

“John!”

John groaned to himself.

“Oh, what does he want?”

“Shut up, John. Say it,” demanded the Nagging Detective.

“Can’t say if I shut up, can I?”

“John!”

Whining now. Whining which wouldn’t stop until Sherlock got what he was after.

Mycroft, with his eyes closed, smiled to himself.

“Oh…go on, then,” sighed John, dramatically. “I love you, you sexy dickhead.”

“Thanks,” chirped Lock, pecking his flatmate on the lips. “Love you too, sexy dickhead.”

Chatter became fewer and farther between as unconsciousness beckoned.

John jerked suddenly as a low voice husked his name.

"Yeah, Myc? You OK?"

A pause.

"Heartfelt declaration of sentiment."

John huffed in delight.

"Right. Got ya. Same. Heartfelt. And thank you.”

“Thank you?”

“For today. For… For all of it.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Johnny.”

“Me? Never. Ridiculous is talking to a one-year-old as if she’s a contestant on University Challenge.”

“Stop laughing, brother mine…”

John lay back, beaming up at the ceiling.

“Think you can cope with a baby other than Sherlock, then? Mess and all?”

Sherlock huffed and refused to rise to the pathetic joke.

“I believe so, my dear," nodded Mycroft. "How could I do without it now, hm?”

“Are all dangerous government spycatchers as soft as you, love?”

“Gregory, I am merely a harmless and humble functionary of the Civil Service.”

"Everyone shut up! I am trying to sleep! Blabbering idiots. Never a moment’s peace when you want it…”

No-one could bear to take on another argument. All eyes closed. But the (“Loveyou”) which Lock mouthed with the barest of whispers hung in the air loud and clear.

The moment the words left his lips, two pairs of Holmesian eyes sprang simultaneously open, and dazzled each other with complete knowledge and complete, lifelong understanding.

Peace descended. Snuffles and nuzzles ceased. Breathing slowed.

As they drifted off, soft words drifted up to the ceiling, swirling round the dozing, intertwined bodies.

Love you, love you. Love you, love you.

The sound of four men who had somehow configured themselves into a quartet more functional than it had any right to be. As solid and stable as a perfectly even (and perfectly odd) square - an equal quadrilateral shape with symmetry and parallels, and all the right angles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love you dearly, every one, and eternally grateful for your support and responses. Mwah, mwah. Have you done something new with your hair? It looks fab. ;) x


	14. The Network

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg steps up. The arrangement is tested. The past rears its head, the present deals with it, for the good of the future. 
> 
> Set a little time after the last chapter. The Quartet are still in their early days, but this is another kind of First.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For DyingGarden, who requested it and who has waited for absolutely sodding AGES. x  
> (Also, I couldn't leave it at 13 chapters. That's just not on.)
> 
> With a fabulous surprise picture at the very end (no scrolling ahead, you!).

Sherlock had the answer, and it felt amazing.

He hadn't slept for 48 hours, but he had the answer.

He hadn't showered or changed clothes, or eaten anything, or exchanged more than a few words with his partners in that time. But he had the answer.

As he raced along the Victoria Embankment towards Scotland Yard, coat-tails flying behind him, hair blown back off his face, he felt invincible and dazzling. At the top of his game.

The Network had come good once again. Through his back-channel contacts of junkies and street-dwellers he'd identified the source of the adulterated pills which had been killing young people in London over the summer festival season. The perpetrators: a new crime syndicate with links to a pharmaceutical conglomerate putting untested products out into the marketplace. An unconscionable mass guinea-pig experiment which would now come to an end because of him.

He had solved the case.

He would present his discovery to Greg and be fabulously rewarded and appreciated.

The first case he'd solved for the Met since they'd become partners in bed as well as in business. Greg would be reminded that his youngest lover was also the nimblest, most agile, and most daring. John would look at him with that starstruck look, thrilled at his boyfriend's genius. He'd get massively laid by both of them for being so clever. And Mycie would...

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Mycroft would have kittens. Big brother would have a cow. He'd have a complete shit-fit, and then he'd have Sherlock's arse flayed and served on a silver platter. It was odd that he hadn't quite let himself think about that until this very moment.

The Network were not to be used except as an absolute last resort. Preferably, they were never to be used, but definitely not used without supervision and back-up, or without his lovers' knowledge. Particularly not without Big Brother's express permission.

Sherlock stopped in his tracks to glare at the Thames, feeling a bit less keen to run into Greg's office and declare himself the best detective who ever lived. Even though he was.

Bloody rules. It wasn't fair.

He just hadn't felt like being supervised. He hadn't felt like being monitored this time. Because he had to prove that he could be trusted to work in dark places without falling back into drug-use. He had proven exactly that - he'd worked clean, worked smart, and got his answers responsibly without compromising his or anyone else's safety. He hadn't even been tempted by the assorted powders and rocks and injectables being passed round liked sweets.

He'd never go back to it, and if Mycroft didn't know that by now, he'd never know it. And what then? Then they'd always live under a cloud of hateful suspicion, and guilt, and dreadful sadness at the traumas his past problems had caused. He had to prove he could be trusted, and if solving this case didn't prove that, what on earth did?

He put Mycroft's furious frowning face away in his mind's eye, and focused instead on Lestrade. Lestrade would be grateful.

Technically, Greg had warned him off the case in the early stages. Anything to do with drug crime was taken away from him, after many a four-way discussion on the subject. He understood the reasoning. But this was a murder case. A mass murder case to boot, and none of the Scotland Yard cretins had gotten near to ending the trail of bodies in months of substandard investigative work. Greg was doing his best, but had been diverted by a recent spate of defenestrated billionaire business rivals. The higher-ups wanted high-profile 'respectable' victims accounted for, over and above a bunch of scrappy, drug-taking kids. Sherlock couldn't let that slide.

No, Greg would be pleased. Another load off his plate.

John would be impressed.

John, who had also been thrown off the scent of the secret Network mission with some just-convincing-enough cover stories about late night autopsies at St. Bart's. Sherlock had given him a stack of names and addresses to sort through to keep him busy, sending him on a tiny bit of a wild goose chase. For his own good, of course.

He couldn't have John tagging along on this one. Couldn't put Rosie's Dad in that situation. And John just wasn't that convincing as an undercover smackhead. Couldn't shake his look of medical concern or his military posture for long enough to make it seem real. John couldn't disguise his essential decency in slum dens like the Inferno, or the Oven, or the Jago. He shouldn't have to. 

Sherlock scowled as a brief needle of doubt prodded at him. Would John mind? Surely he knew there were just certain places and certain times a consulting detective had to go it alone? It wasn't personal. It was a professional decision. Anyway, 48 hours wasn't a big deal. It was just overtime, really. Everyone worked overtime. Past arguments about 'ditching' wafted across his memory, but he shelved them with a firm shake of his head. He hadn't ditched John. He had protected him.

He loped along the river path and wove his way towards Scotland Yard, head down, and a black mood descending. He'd fallen from his pedestal of high of triumph into a slough of despond and self-doubt. It angered him that he'd been made to question himself. It angered him that he couldn't enjoy his success even in his own head, because of the squirmy, wiggly sensation in his stomach, and the heavy weight set about his heart.

The looming mental image of a seriously displeased Mycroft, and an incandescent John threw his confidence for a loop. He pinned all his hopes on Greg. 

He barged his way into the Met HQ, storming past all the boring security checks, and up towards Lestrade's domain. Sod it all to hell. He'd solved the case, and he was damned if he was going to walk in looking hang-dog and apologetic for something he had no reason to feel bad about.

As he swept past the usual sidelong curious glances and resentful glares of the Yard Morons, he pulled himself up into his haughtiest posture, and schooled his features into a smug, satisfied smirk.

He didn't bother knocking on Greg's door. His erstwhile colleague and still relatively new lover looked up at him as he entered. If Sherlock imagined a hero's welcome, he was severely disappointed. 

Greg was granite-faced, though underlying that Sherlock discerned...relief. Concern. Fear?

"Well, where in the bloody hell have you been?" demanded the D.I., voice ominously quiet.

Sherlock snorted contemptuously.

"Out doing what your so-called specialist squad couldn't - solving your drug murders, Lestrade. It's multi-layered organised stuff. You'll want to hand over to the National Crime Agency. There's corruption in the big pharmaceuticals, down to street level. Can we get on with my statement? I've got evidence. I've got names."

"Are you hurt?" asked Greg, doing a cursory visual check.

He approached but Sherlock took a quick step back, the adrenaline shooting through his blood making him nervy. His defensive instincts were operating on full power - a residual behavioural reflex from the unpredictable, dangerous environment he'd just emerged from. He didn't answer the question, considering it beneath contempt.

Greg glared at him, and took out his phone. Sherlock frowned in consternation as he made the predictable call.

"Myc. Yeah, got him. Seems fine... I don't know yet. Need to get things tied up here, then we're coming home. OK, doll. Don't worry, all under control."

Sherlock swallowed hard and ignored the way his stomach flipped over.

"Mycie all right?" he asked, casually.

Greg tilted his head and looked at him with narrowed eyes.

"Yeah. Mycie's fine. Mycie's been tracking you for 48 hours, said you were on your way. Mycie's waiting for you at the flat. With John."

Sherlock huffed.

"Tracking me. Ugh. Might have known."

Greg chuckled humourlessly.

"Oh, yeah. You might have known, my lad."

"John's there too?"

"Yep."

Greg's face gave nothing away, and it unnerved Sherlock no end. He could feel himself coming further down to earth. Glimpses of post-adrenaline reality began to kick in. Something was very much not good here.

Greg clicked his fingers and indicated the seat in front of his desk, all brusque professionalism.

"Come on. Sit. Let's have your statement. Give me everything."

Sherlock did, pleased to be able to launch into his findings, secure in his detective mindset.

When he had finished Greg made the phone calls he needed to make and briefed the team, leaving him sitting in the office like a useless appendage. He felt like he was in disgrace, when he ought to have been lauded.

When Greg returned, he found the moody sleuth hunched low in his chair, arms folded, fuming and disappointed - hiding inside his Belstaff like the nerdy kid at school no-one wanted to play with. Greg's heart clenched for him.

"Come on, Trouble. Let's get you home," he said, softly.

Sherlock looked up, amazed to hear his lover's 'at home' voice here. He suddenly felt like he wanted to cry and he didn't really know why. He kicked the desk in frustration.

"Fine," he snapped, and pushed himself up with a huff. 

Greg sighed and ushered him out. He could see that his lover was exhausted and volatile as hell.

Sherlock caught the sympathetic look beneath Greg's stern demeanour, but persisted with his strop and stormed out ahead.

They took a cab back to Baker Street.

As they entered the hallway, Sherlock felt suddenly jittery and anxious. His feet didn't seem to want to go up the stairs. He looked round at Greg with a puzzled frown, and almost flinched when the man stepped forwards and wrapped him in a huge hug.

"Oh, you big daft lad," said the D.I., oozing appalling tolerance and affection which Sherlock felt singularly unequipped to receive at this moment.

He ducked his head and let himself be held somewhat awkwardly. An uncomfortable welter of emotion settled in his chest which he couldn't quite pick through.

"Think I smell," he said, feeling a bit sheepish and silly.

Greg smiled wanly. "You do, love. You stink. And you're pale, and hungry, and knackered. Had yourself a bit of an adventure, haven't you? But we're gonna sort you out now."

Sherlock pulled away, and glanced up the stairs.

"Am I in trouble?" he asked, baffled, as though that question had only just occurred to him.

Greg chuckled with genuine warmth this time and tapped him on the nose.

"Oh, yes, baby. You're in an absolute shit heap of trouble. Come on, my Lockie. Music-facing time."

Greg pushed him up the stairs with a hand on his lower back, and Sherlock, much to his own confusion, began to feel calmer than he had done in two days. A tiny bit. Until, that was, Greg knocked on the door to Flat B, and John answered with a face like thunder and lightning.

He bit his lip as he was half-pushed, half-pulled into the living room, where the final member of the dreadful welcoming committee was sitting in the client chair, legs neatly crossed, brogued foot bouncing up and down with telltale impatience.

Sherlock winced as he read his brother's thin-lipped, stony expression. Livid, certainly. But most of all, shattered with worry and that deep-seated old pain which Sherlock never wanted to see in his face ever again.

"Dr Watson," said Mycroft, tightly, staring intently at the new arrival, deducing like mad. "Please be so kind as to examine my brother, to ensure he is not hurt." 

John nodded and swung into the action they had agreed upon. He gently pulled Sherlock into the middle of the room and grabbed his medical bag.

"Strip off," he said, not unkindly.

Sherlock grumbled and briefly considered refusing. But the atmosphere in the room was thick with awful tension so that his heart pounded and he could do nothing but obey. He was scrutinised, surrounded on all sides. He wasn't up for a fight. Not yet. So he took his filthy clothes off with methodical slowness. Greg sped him along, removing his rancid t-shirt and everything else until he stood fully exposed to the men who loved him. He shivered in spite of himself. 

John gave him a thorough check-up. He pressed every rib, took his temperature, tested his range of motion and all his reflexes while Mycroft stood before them, observing it all with a hawk-like expression.

Greg held Sherlock's shoulders loosely from behind, partly to steady him but partly in order to grab him if he tried to escape. 

He whined at all the manhandling and fuss, but saw that it was inevitable. Though his face flushed with embarrassment, underneath he bubbled with self-righteous indignation.

"I told Lestrade, I'm not hurt," he said, sulkily.

Mycroft quelled him with a fierce glare, daring him to speak again. He wisely shut his mouth. 

"Well, he's right about that," said the Doctor, to two of the three men in the room. "Not a scratch or a bruise on him."

"And the rest please, John," said Mycroft with a weary sigh.

John nodded grimly and pulled Sherlock's arms, turning his forearms over to check the veins for track marks and pinpricks. He did the same down each leg, round his stomach, groin, hips, and buttocks. Then he moved in front of him, looking with professional neutrality at the rather sorry sight their wayward lover made - bedraggled, with hollowed, dark-circled eyes, his face all pallid and caked in dirt.

Sherlock scowled furiously as he was checked for drug use. He felt utterly hard done by - insulted and outraged.

"I didn't use!" he shouted, flinching away as John brought a small torch up to his eye to check his pupils.

Mycroft stepped in closer. 

"Look at me," he commanded.

Sherlock turned his head away, and his brother pulled his chin back round firmly to gaze into the limpid blue pools with a piercing intensity.

Only now did Sherlock properly note the state of his brother's appearance. The same gaunt, dark-eyed exhaustion he knew he'd see in the mirror, if he could bring himself to look. There were deep creases of anxiety at the corners of his eyes, across his brow, on either side of his downturned mouth. His brother had not slept or eaten for 48 hours either. His chest ached with guilt.

Mycroft saw it run through his little brother's face and softened a tiny bit.

"Open," he said as he gently tugged on his jaw.

Sherlock clenched his teeth in instinctive defiance, but Mycroft pinched his nose until he was forced to open his mouth to breathe. John quickly ran two vinyl-gloved fingers round the inside of his cheeks and soft-palate, then checked his throat with the torch before pulling away to shine it briefly up his nose.

The Doctor seemed to breathe a little easier and nodded, satisfied at what he found. Or rather, didn't find.

He nodded. "OK, we're clean."

Mycroft exhaled and closed his eyes momentarily, almost sagging with relief.

"I'd still like a blood sample, John, for peace of mind."

Sherlock shook them off, shoving away with petulant hostility.

"Piss off! I didn't use, I told you I didn't and you know I didn't! Weren't you spying on me the whole time anyway?!"

"I didn't see you take anything, and none of my informants told me as much, but we know from bitter bloody experience - "

"Do you want to check up my arse as well, just for a bit of added humiliation?!"

"I will if you don't stop shouting at me Sherlock William," hissed Mycroft, dangerously. "I'll have John give you a full enema if you don't comply 100% with me. I'll have you on 24-hour watch until I am satisfied that you are sober and abstinent. We simply won't go through this again!"

Sherlock's chest hitched as his brother's volume increased.

"I haven't taken anything! I'm not lying!"

Mycroft inhaled sharply and ran his hands through his hair in a gesture of pent-up frustration. He took a moment to compose himself.

Greg leaned in and shushed Sherlock from behind. 

John exhaled slowly, shaking his head at how bad this was getting.

When Mycroft spoke again, his voice was suspiciously hoarse.

"I believe you, Lock. I do," he said, sincerely, attempting to de-escalate. "But I need to ask Gregory to go through the pockets of your coat, and those disgusting jeans you were wearing."

Sherlock shrugged and scoffed, then suddenly remembered something. His face fell and he almost swore out loud at his own stupidity.

Mycroft looked at him with a forbidding glare, arms folded. He already knew.

Greg did as he was asked and rummaged through the pockets out of Sherlock's eyeline.

The Holmes brothers maintained permanent unblinking eye contact, facing off silently, neither prepared to budge from their entrenched roles of Investigator and Suspect. 

"Oh, fuck," breathed Greg, heavily.

He came over holding a tiny wrap of clingfilm with a gram of white powder in it. 

John inhaled through his teeth.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered.

Sherlock heard the disappointment in his voice and shifted uneasily from foot to foot, though he tried to maintain a semblance of dignity.

"Coke, mandy, speed? What is it?" asked Greg, matter-of-factly.

Sherlock looked down and breathed deeply. It looked terrible, and it just wasn't fair. He felt like the biggest idiot alive.

"I was told MDMA, but it could be anything, couldn't it? I haven't used it. I wasn't intending to use it. I wasn't tempted to take anything at any point! Until a moment ago I'd forgotten it was even there."

"Why is it there then?!" demanded John, as royally pissed off as Sherlock could recall seeing him. He went on the counteroffensive.

"Because I had to play the role, John, why do you think?! You can't go undercover in the criminal underworld saying 'oh, no thanks, I've given up'! I bought it to buy trust and to buy information. It was destined to be flushed down the loo when I got home. Better that than it goes up some kid's nose, isn't it?! I've taken it off the street!"

"And paid a drug dealer!" said John, disbelieving of the self-justifying tone he was hearing.

"And brought it into the Yard!" said Greg, raising his voice in fury. "What if they'd searched you? What if the dog unit were in for spot checks? We'd be trying to clear a possession charge off your record. How can someone so clever be so bloody stupid?!"

Sherlock tried not to flinch.

"You forgot all about it," said Mycroft, sardonically. "Slipped from your memory, just like that, did it? Sherlock Holmes. Brain like a sieve, yes?"

Sherlock rounded on him, oozing sarcasm.

"Don't you think I would have gone to greater lengths to hide it if I was hoping to snort it after dinner?"

Mycroft seemed to go even more rigid and glowered at him with dark menace.

"Yes, actually," he said, in a clipped, harsh tone. He was barely controlling his temper.

"If you had intended to take it, you would have snorted it with the dregs of humanity last night, or the night before. You forgot about it because you had no intention of declaring it, brother mine, did you? Pushed it out of mind. You were hoping to dispose of it in secret to avoid exactly this kind of confrontation. To prove to yourself that you could resist temptation? The thrill of having it in your possession, the ego-boost of knowing you weren't going to give in. A dangerous game. Just like the dangerous game of using the Network in the first place. Which you also had no intention of declaring. How thrilling to work behind our backs until you had your answer, and bugger the cost to yourself or to us!"

Mycroft paused to catch his breath and to fight down the wild, unhelpful emotion that threatened to escape.

"You don't trust me!" accused Sherlock, though it sounded weak to his own ears.

Mycroft looked wounded.

"This isn't about drugs, you foolish boy! I know you don't use anymore, Lock. I know you aren't lying to me now. But you _have_ lied, to all of us. How can we trust you if you do that? You have gone to great lengths to ensure you could run amok without oversight or interference - by which I mean adequate protection. It is about communication! You have broken the rules we negotiated with and for each other. You may not have taken an illicit substance, but you are currently coming down from a high of self-delusion and self-aggrandizement."

He jabbed his finger to ram the message home.

"You have just had a 48 hour Danger Night, putting yourself in harm's way for motives which we will be going into in much greater detail, believe you me baby brother!" 

Sherlock's shoulders sagged under this onslaught of absolute, difficult truth.

Silence fell.

"I'm...," he whispered, forlornly. "Yeah."

Before he knew what was happening, he was being swept into his brother's arms and hugged so fiercely he could barely breathe.

Desperate kisses were pressed to his face and neck, and his brother's long, cool hands gripped the sides of his head, then fell to the middle of his back.

Mycroft clutched onto him as though needing to reassure himself that Sherlock was real and solid, and unharmed.

Sherlock burst into tight little sobs - because he couldn't help it.

"I didn't mean to upset you... I just wanted to know the answer!" he choked out into his brother's sweet-smelling collar.

"I know. I'm so proud of you for not using. I am so proud about that, darling...," Mycroft ground out, voice strained and thick with unshed tears.

The words broke the dam, and Sherlock's shoulders shuddered uncontrollably.

John and Greg surrounded him, and he was gathered to each of them in turn.

"Sorry, John. John, don't hate me - "

John kissed his partner's tear-streaked face and caressed his lank, matted hair.

"Hey, stop. Love you. Stayed clean, caught murderers. Did a bloody good job. We'll talk about the bullshit."

Sherlock felt some of the heaviness go out of him as he was soothed and petted.

Greg grabbed him for a much-needed kiss. 

Sherlock looked round from the embrace to see John comforting Mycroft, rubbing his lower back up and down.

"Shh, come on now...," rumbled Greg in his ear. "Gonna be all right, love."

Greg caught Mycroft's red-rimmed eye and gave him a reassuring wink. Mycroft nodded imperceptibly.

Sherlock bit his lip, and searched his brother's solemn face. His heart sank as he realised what was happening.

"You're not going to be punish me, are you?" he asked softly, though it wasn't a real question.

Mycroft moved across the distance to dab at his brother's cheek with his handkerchief.

"I can't, dearest. I'm sorry to say it, but it pains me too much. It breaks my heart. Because of all we've come through."

Sherlock nodded dolefully.

"Greg's going to do it."

"Yeah, I am, love. My job now. Like we agreed."

Mycroft bit his lip.

"It's not because I don't - "

Sherlock sniffled piteously.

"I've hurt you too much in the past."

Mycroft stepped in close, swiftly correcting him.

"No. Not you, brother," he said, earnestly, shaking him by the upper arms just a little. "You have never hurt me. Addiction has hurt us - both of us - too much in the past. Addiction has hurt you so much that I feel it like the pain of a phantom limb. I know you aren't using, and I believe you will never use again. But you are still an addict, little brother. You can't play fast and loose with it, not for any reason on earth. You will face up to that fact every single time you forget it."

Sherlock nodded heavily.

"I know I'll be an addict forever. I can't do a little without doing a lot. So I do nothing."

John sat down with a heavy sigh. 

"You do get it, then?"

Sherlock frowned.

"Of course."

"Then why go racing into the dens - " John began, then bit down his erupting frustration at a look from Greg.

"We'll have the whys and wherefores. But first this one needs a shower and a hot meal, and to get into his bloody pyjamas where he belongs."

Sherlock let Greg lead him to the bathroom.

He looked back over his shoulder to see John guiding his brother down onto to the sofa to stroke his head against his shoulder. He breathed easier knowing Mycie was in capable hands.

Greg hopped in the shower with him, though it was a little cramped. He washed his exhausted lover with brisk but gentle movements until all the grime of the streets slipped down the drain and away to the Thames. He massaged shampoo into the curly mop and rinsed it out, stripping away the layers of filth which coated him. Then he towelled him off in silence, patting Sherlock's soft, pale flesh until it was smooth and clean and dry again. 

Greg dressed him in a pair of grey checked pyjama bottoms and a soft blue t-shirt, and brought him back out to find their partners preparing dinner in silence. The flat had never seemed so quiet. It made all of them feel rather miserable.

They ate with no enjoyment and even less appetite. Sherlock forced himself to finish what was put in front of him, though it was like ashes in his mouth. He ate because he knew it would only cause more upset if he didn't, and then everything would be a hundred times worse. John and Greg made some effort at small talk but no-one could go with the flow.

Greg half-wondered whether it was a mistake to string it out like this, whether it wouldn't have been better to have had it out while Lock was dirty and starving. Perhaps it would have felt less torturous to them all. 

When everything was cleared away and enough time had passed to let the food go down, Greg finally broke the sepulchral atmosphere.

"Myc? You OK to start?" 

Mycroft nodded.

"Thank you, Gregory. I think so. As we said."

"Lock, stand up, please," said Greg, firmly.

Sherlock stood, feeling like a man on his way to the chopping block.

Greg looked at him seriously.

"Right. First off, I'm punishing you on behalf of us all, right? Tell me why you've earned it." 

Sherlock closed his eyes and screwed up his nose in reluctance. Dinner had restored some of his energy and with it, a bit of self-preservation, despite the fact he didn't have a leg to stand on.

"Because I bought drugs. Even though I didn't take them," he said, knowing this was absolutely the wrong answer.

Mycroft barked a bitterly incredulous laugh behind him.

"Don't even think about being obstinate, young man. Answer Gregory. Answer me, and John. What have you done wrong?"

"I bought drugs for information, and didn't hand them over straightaway. I think we've already been through that!"

Mycroft sat back with his arms folded, eyes narrowing at the display of attitude. Sherlock was always going to lash-out before he was humbled, even when he was truly sorry and knew full well what he had done wrong. When he felt the absolute worst he typically delayed the inevitable comeuppance, delayed atonement to let himself wallow in self-recrimination, demanding stronger push-back before he'd allow himself to break. But it wasn't Lock's job to punish himself. Someone else had to do it, and he was not going to be let down.

Greg folded his arms with resolute disapproval.

"Watch your bloody tone. What else?"

Sherlock shrugged huffily.

"I'm not allowed to work drug cases." 

"You are not. Not usually."

"But this was mass murder!" he protested. "14 people, all under the age of 25. Dead."

Greg gave a stern frown. "I'm well aware. Warned you off the case myself, didn't I?"

"Yes. You warned me off the case and I went on the case," mumbled Sherlock. He looked up in defiance. "But no-one else was on the ruddy case!"

Greg paused, then nodded with regret. "Yep. You're right about that," he sighed. "It was a fucking disaster, and you got in there, solved it and saved some lives. You did that right, as always, cos you're brilliant. Not interested in that at the moment. I want to hear what you fucked up."

A flash of irritation crossed Sherlock's face as he saw what his lover was driving at. He was being praised for the outcome. The working methods were the issue.

"I used the Network!" he growled, glaring resentfully at his brother out of the side of his eye.

Mycroft raised a chilly eyebrow.

"It's almost as if you wilfully misunderstand me to justify your desire to misbehave... I am an eminently practical man, Sherlock, am I not? I do understand that the Network is a useful resource. You are not forbidden from using it when absolutely necessary," he said, as reasonably as he could, though it pained him to admit it. "But you are supposed to tell me - us - so we can put controls in place! I loathe having to second guess you. I despise having to spy on you to keep you safe. I know you hate it too, so don't put me in that position!"

Greg held up a hand to quiet him.

Sherlock looked at the floor in ignominy and made no reply.

"OK, trying to get away with using the Network without 'fessing up, right?" said Greg, as though adding the offence to what was going to be a very long list of misdemeanours. 

"Yes. I didn't tell you what I was doing, or where I was going."

"And we call that?"

"Lying!" He spat the confession, hating having to say it out loud.

"Is that the only thing you lied about?"

"Yeah," mumbled Sherlock, then sighed in exasperation. "No. No, obviously! I lied to John about...sodding everything. Gave him a load of spurious busywork and misrepresented my whereabouts."

He sounded gloomier than ever as he recounted his misdeeds. His remorse was palpable to all.

"At any point, did you think those lies were convincing, Lock?" asked Mycroft, with a challenge in his voice.

The question made him falter.

"Er... Yeah. They were, weren't they?" he said, looking round at them. "Isn't that why you're all so pissed off with me?"

John snorted.

"Pfft, yeah, right. Bloody hell, you really do think I'm a idiot, don't you? I know when you're fobbing me off!"

"Then why did you let me do it?!"

"Because you wanted to solve the case," said Greg, simply. "We needed you to solve the case too. You chose it yourself, fixated on it. If we'd kicked up a fuss, you'd have gone in deeper and disappeared longer - done it all in deep cover, told cleverer lies. Made more work for Myc. You must have known he was on you the whole time?!"

Sherlock huffed. It was true. He had known. Of course he had. But he'd chosen not to look at that fact. He'd only focused on solving it, even though part of him wondered why he was being allowed to do so. He took out his frustration with his unruly brain on the nearest available targets.

"So it was a nice experiment for you all, was it?! Let's see if he can work a narcotics case without falling off the wagon, oh, haha! Let's see if he can stay clean. Let him fall into our trap and then punish him for it afterwards! Well, I won't be a guinea pig for your amateur observations! I won't be treated like some little junkie kid, just because I have a past! I won't be made to feel like a, like a..."

"A victim," declared Mycroft, in a sonorous tone.

Sherlock stopped short. All three of his partners were looking at him with unbearable knowingness. It rankled with him to be so transparent, even as it melted him to be so obviously understood. He dipped his head, feeling unworthy of their empathy.

"In your early 20s weren't you, when you started using?" said John, with well-rehearsed clarity. "Like them. Teenagers and young adults written off as no-good addicts and junkies. Dismissed as being too stupid to live. No-one cared. No-one had any sympathy for them. Almost as if they deserved to die. 'Didn't they know how dangerous it was to take stuff with no idea what it was?' Could have been you. Literally. Cos no matter how clever you were about your supply and your doses, you weren't any different to those kids. And you know it."

"All kids the coppers should have been protecting," said Greg, shaking his head with a sigh. He was deeply frustrated by the position he'd been put in over this one. "Shouldn't have been pulling resources away to stop bloody billionaires murdering other billionaires. Just youngsters trying to get our of their heads, trying to escape their demons, experimenting. Self-medicating, most likely. We weren't stopping them getting killed. You were, love. Because you felt for them."

Sherlock's chest hitched and he kept his eyes fixed on his feet.

"Do you think we wouldn't have backed you up, if you'd said the case meant something to you?" pushed Greg. "If you'd argued for it, told us anything about your plans?"

"I... I didn't think to ask."

Greg frowned doubtfully.

"Didn't you?"

Sherlock sighed as he looked up and shrugged helplessly as he admitted the awful truth of it.

"Yes. I did think to ask. I wanted to do it by myself." 

"Certainly didn't want me cramping your style, did you?" added John, with obvious resentment at being left behind.

Sherlock winced.

"John... I didn't want you in harm's way. And you stick out like a sore thumb. You're too good for those places!"

"So are you!" shouted John suddenly, slamming his hand on the arm of the sofa and making them all jump. "So are you, Sherlock Holmes. Addict or not - past, present or future. You are too good for those places! You are too decent for that life, and too good to let it have you again, even just pretending!"

Sherlock didn't say anything, simply looked at him with an expression of desperate hope as he tried to believe what he was saying.

John ran a hand through his hair in frustration.

"Don't bloody leave me out again. You know it drives me mental! It's a two way street - you protect me, I protect you. If you don't think I can cut it in the mix, you give me something else to do. Something meaningful!" 

Mycroft looked at John with gratitude, then back at his brother, who really did seem like a vulnerable boy now, standing there in pyjamas being told off by three men still on the climbdown from their biggest fears.

"I will never let you become a victim," he said, insistent and certain. "No matter how old you are. You will never, ever escape my view, little brother."

"I don't want to, Mycie! I just - "

"Couldn't control the urge to run," finished his brother, with complete comprehension. "Which is why you tell me - so I can clear your path. This was a slip, a reversion to past habits, in one way if not in others. Unsurprising given the nature of the case. I ought to have pre-empted it sooner."

"Not your fault. My fault," mumbled Sherlock, shoulders drooping now.

"Well, you made your choice. Thrill of the chase. Putting consequences out of mind."

Sherlock nodded with a hangdog expression, which made Mycroft feel even more woeful. But he knew it was in his brother's best interests to be blunt. They were a little way off comfort yet, and he couldn't wait for the moment when Lock would be unburdened of his wrongdoing.

Greg cleared his throat, pulling focus back onto himself as the main director of this disciplinary encounter.

"Lock. We won't have that behaviour, do you understand? I won't, John won't. Your brother won't. As if you needed telling. How do you think it makes us feel when you go off piste? Bloody useless, that's what. And fucking terrified. Like Mycie said, it's not the drugs, sweetheart."

"If you fell off the wagon we'd get you back on it," said John, pointing at him with determination. "Every step of the way."

"It's not even the mania," continued Greg. "That's just you sometimes. It's the all or nothing - no sleep, no food, no communication, no truth. Letting yourself get to that stage without pulling the alarm."

"It's the addiction to Danger Night itself," said Mycroft, with his usual piercing accuracy.

John rolled his eyes. "Addiction to being a solo champion. Addiction to bloody pirating!"

Greg stepped closer to a now very meek-looking Lock.

"No-one wants to stop you doing what you do best, Holmes. But we're a team. We're your bloody Network! It's a relationship, isn't it? It's love. You can't treat us like bit-players you write in and out depending on which storyline you fancy from one week to the next. Not if you want it to last."

Sherlock's eyes blew wide. Shock jolted through his heart.

"What? I do want it to last! Why would you say that? I don't... You're not... You can't leave over it! Mycie would never forgive me! Greg, you can't... John?!" he pleaded, tears filling his eyes instantly.

Mycroft was up and over to him in a flash.

"Darling, don't be silly, no, no...," he soothed, shushing his volatile, hyperventilating brother. "No-one's leaving anyone. Nothing has changed. I'd forgive you anything..." 

Greg and John moved in automatically as they saw their lover unravel into catastrophising.

"Oi, oi. Bloody hell..."

Greg felt like a complete monster.

"Calm it, love. S'all right," said John, soothing and fond. "Not getting rid of us that easily." 

"Not trying to scare you," explained Greg, steeling himself to continue. "Just there are some things you need to think about, now you've got other people to consider. I know you've always had Mycie to pull you up. He always knows what you're up to. But this stuff wears him right down. And us mere mortals need a bit of extra consideration from time to time."

Sherlock nodded, trying to pull himself back into a rational frame of mind.

"I... I hoped you'd be pleased with me," he whispered, squirming at the admission. "I was trying to...impress you. Showing off. Thought it would prove you could all trust me. Huh. So stupid."

Mycroft sighed. "I think we'll say silly not stupid, dear. It's not stupid to want to impress us. It is very silly to go about it self-destructively."

Greg hugged the defeated-looking detective.

"You always impress me, boy. Don't need to prove anything. You'd impress me more if you came to me at the start. Trusted me to help, or enough to let me know the score." 

Sherlock was appalled. It hadn't occurred to him that his negligence had been interpreted as a lack of trust.

"Do trust you! Trust you, and John. With everything. Trust you with Mycie. With my entire life - all our lives!"

John nudged him gently.

"Not this time you didn't, mate. But you can, and you bloody have to."

Sherlock exhaled a shaky breath and nodded with solemn understanding. He turned to Greg.

"Are you going to spank me now?"

Mycroft snorted at such a flagrant attempt to dictate his own sentence.

John chuckled. 

"Do you really think you're getting off with just a spanking for this one, mate?"

Sherlock blushed. "Erm..."

Greg stood back, slipping into the headspace he needed in order to be the solid object instead of the soft landing.

"It's the strap for you, my boy," he announced. "A proper good hiding. You need one. Got an agreement, don't we?"

Sherlock balked.

"I don't want you to. I want Mycie!" he blurted, the unfamiliarity of the situation making him reach for familiar territory.

A tiny grimace creased Mycroft's brow. He'd anticipated this reaction.

"Lock...," he said, half-warningly, half-pleadingly. This was difficult enough for him, without his brother begging him to do something he couldn't.

Greg pulled his young lover's chin back around to face him, and schooled his features into a gravely authoritative expression.

"Mycie can't do it, love. You know he can't. This definitely counts as a belting offence. And if I had a cane, that's what you'd be getting. It's me or nothing."

He began to remove his belt with grim determination.

Sherlock's eyes bulged. Sudden panic that he wouldn't be able to get through this, and the irrational fear of the unknown hit him at full speed. He couldn't think what to do. And then words occurred to him. His get-out clause.

"Toast," he blurted. "Red! Safeword, safeword, safeword!" he shouted, flinging himself to the door, ready to flee.

Only the need to know how they would respond held him back from leaving. Safeword was the only thing he could cling to in the whirlwind of confusion.

Because what if he couldn't cope without humiliating himself? What if Greg thought he was a ridiculous baby who couldn't take the belt without blubbing, and John saw him being a pathetic, unsexy dickhead who wasn't someone to admire after all? And what if Mycroft felt guilty for not being able to punish him, and it hurt him more than it hurt Sherlock? Was it a betrayal of Mycroft to take a strapping from Greg in the first place?

Was their agreement really genuine? If he refused, wouldn't everyone be disappointed that he couldn't accept the discipline he said he needed? Could they let him safeword without guilt-tripping him about it? What if he simply couldn't handle being this vulnerable in front of anyone, and what if they couldn't forgive him after all? What if everything was going to hell in a handcart and it was all his fault for being difficult and weird, and more trouble than he was worth, and stupid, stupid, stupid?!

Greg dropped his belt immediately Sherlock said Toast, and looked vaguely aghast. He struggled to suppress the sting of rejection but prioritised his lover's message above his own hurt feelings. 

Mycroft slumped onto the sofa, sitting with his elbows on his knees. He leaned his forehead on the heels of his hands and nodded slightly to himself as he heard in his mind every word his brother was thinking.

John seemed to be holding his breath, and approached his flatmate like he would approach an injured squirrel.

"Really?" he asked, gently, holding out a hand to him. "Sure? Not better to get out the other side of this one quickly?"

Sherlock did not move.

"John," said Greg, quietly. "It's his choice. If he's not ready, he's not ready." He looked at his distressed lover with conviction. "I can't force you, love. I wouldn't."

Sherlock believed him, and looked to his brother, the fount of all wisdom, for a way out of this awful mess.

Mycroft looked up into his brother's huge quicksilver eyes. He had only single words to offer. Each loaded with unspoken paragraphs.

"Think. Observe. Listen. Feel."

Sherlock closed his eyes. Nobody seemed to breathe as he raced through his thoughts and feelings, scanning for what felt like hours.

In the end it was simple. In the end, it simply came down to trust.

He made his choice, clear-headed and freely. 

"All right," he said with relief and dread in equal measure. "I consent."

Mycroft sat back and heaved a huge sigh as he looked to the ceiling. His unspoken 'thank God' loud and clear.

Greg regarded the mercurial detective with justifiable skepticism. He would be the one responsible if this went wrong.

"Are you sure now? Don't submit to pressure, not even in your own head. Don't do it to please any of us. If you don't think you deserve it, you don't have to take it. If you're not truly sorry, you don't have to be made sorry."

Sherlock shook his head.

"No. I'm all right. Deserve it. Sorry. I'm just... It's just...."

"First time, innit?" said Greg, knowingly. He tilted his head and grinned, trying to lighten the exchange. "Not scared of little old me, are you?"

Sherlock huffed a small laugh. "No. Not of you."

"Just a bit scared of it being new, then? Not knowing what to expect."

"Yeah. It'll...hurt." Sherlock cringed at how childish he sounded.

Greg raised an eyebrow. "Oh, I'll make sure it does. You've had worse, lad. You can handle a sore bum, I know that much."

"I'm not scared of a sore bum! But it'll make me cry, and I've already cried today!" he whined.

The sound of it was music to the ears of his lovers. Lock was back in the driving seat, letting himself be taken care of, settling down to the place where he could accept this for himself.

"Hopefully," said John, rather more cheerfully than he meant to.

Sherlock glared at him indignantly. "John!"

"Once more for the cheap seats, Lock," said Greg, brooking no argument. "Need you to say it clearly for me. Punished for your mistakes and forgiven? Or beating yourself up for days and driving us all to drink with worry until you do something else to force a response? Them's your options."

"First one, please."

Greg winked and clucked his tongue, and Sherlock, absurdly to his mind, felt miles better.

"There's a clever lad. Go and bring that chair over here."

As Sherlock turned to bring over the chair, Mycroft mouthed a 'thank you' to both his lovers. Later he would make it clear exactly how much he appreciated their persistence and calm in this situation. But right now it was his job - his new and rather strange job - to bear witness as Gregory took his baby brother in hand.

Greg picked up his belt and doubled it, holding the buckle secure in his fist. Time to assume the authority he'd been granted with a clear conscience.

John sat next to Mycroft to steady both their nerves. He gripped his hand and stroked the top if it with his thumb.

Sherlock plonked the chair down and looked to Greg for further instruction.

"Right. Over the back of it. Drop your drawers."

"Ooh, but...!" he whinged incoherently and shuffled his feet.

Greg was inwardly pleased at the minor show of rebellion. Nobody wanted a meek and mild Lock. Nobody wanted him to be sad and scared. Just safe.

"Ey. Drop 'em or I'll pull 'em down for you," he threatened. "Your jimjams haven't done anything wrong, don't see why I should give them a thrashing. Bare arsed, now."

"'Kay...," grumbled Sherlock, turning and pulling his pyjama trousers down to reveal his bare backside. He shuddered as he leant half-heartedly over the chair.

"All the way down, please. Otherwise I'm in danger of hitting your back. Hands flat on the seat, and no pulling up suddenly. Keep still."

"Hmmph."

"Sorry?"

"I said humph!"

 John suppressed a giggle at the backchat even as Mycroft tutted censoriously.

"Manners, Lock! Little hooligan."

"Yes, sir!" sulked Sherlock.

Greg tsked.

"You're getting twenty." 

"Twenty?!" Sherlock looked round, aghast.

"Yep. This was a serious one. It's the maximum you'll ever get off me in one go. Gonna make an impression if it's the last thing I do. So twenty good 'uns. If I were you, I'd make a bit of noise. Try and drown out Mrs H's radio."

Sherlock whined. "I'm going to!"

"Down, please."

Sherlock braced himself, concentrating on the seat cushion, counting each individual thread in the warp and weft. Despite the dreadful pronouncement that he was going to be strapped twenty times, his shaky uncertain feeling was gone. He waited as calmly as he could even though he was grimacing in anticipation. Behind him he sensed Greg moving into position, judging the distance and taking aim.

Then the first blow came cracking across both buttocks with the devil's own vengeance.

It did bloody hurt, and he was going to bloody cry. Any other response would just be stupid. 

"Ow, shit!" he howled, bouncing on his toes as the sharp sting raced down his legs.

Greg strapped him three more times in quick succession, making him gasp.

Mycroft and John watched as pink welts emerged against their lover's pale flesh, hot and angry-looking.

The next three took his breath away, and by the tenth Lock was yelling openly.

"Fucking fuck! Ow, ow!" he wailed in dismay, as his poor arse was leathered another few times.

He lost count of the number. His brain went fuzzy and thoughts became unfocused as the constant biting sting built to a searing burn. The overwhelming physicality of his punishment produced in his mind a very incongruously airy sensation. All his trouble was now in his rear end and no longer in his brain, nor invested in his misdeeds. He was just a naughty lad being disciplined, and once it was over, he would be sorry, and sore, and absolved. 

"I'm sorry! Won't run off again, won't use the Network without you - I won't go anywhere near it, and I... I won't fall back into the life. I promise, promise!" he blubbed, transferring his weight from one foot to the other to try and shake off the smart.

"Last two," announced Greg, assessing his handiwork.

The thick marks on his lover's previously unblemished bottom were fierce-looking, but not over the top. They would last a good few days. He wanted them too. Wanted Lock to feel them when he sat down. Wanted to imprint upon him his no-nonsense, zero tolerance approach to dangerous behaviour. He was marking the territory he'd been given - the stark red lines really a code for 'you fuck up big, and your arse belongs to Greg Lestrade, courtesy Messrs Holmes Senior and Watson'.

He lay down the last two strokes with a heavy arm and Sherlock hollered to the rafters, swearing and kicking out in anger.

He sobbed loudly and woefully, but resisted the urge to spring up and jump about. He stayed bending until given express permission to move, because he was a good boy - and besides, jumping up and down clutching at your striped bottom with your trousers round your ankles was incredibly undignified.

Greg rebuckled his belt, and helped his sorry lover to his feet, pulling him into a huge bear hug.

Sherlock whimpered as he stood and fell into his lover's chest with a mortified moan.

"Oh, let it out, bonny lad. Bloody well taken. Forgiven now, yeah? Wiped off the slate."

John and Mycroft were there in a heartbeat to smother him in comfort.

"Yep. All square," said Watson with a reassuring grin. "Dunno how you took that without leaping to the ceiling. I'd have been hopping about like mad! Is your arse made of Teflon or what?"

Sherlock chuckled snottily, adoring John's overt attempt to let him know he still had his admiration.

John span him round quickly to check the damage.

"Yeesh. I know I say you've got a hot little arse but that's ridiculous. It'll bruise, but, well, it ain't gonna kill you."

Lock huffed and span back to press his forehead to John's, offering his silent apology and having it well and truly accepted.

He let himself be covered in kisses, and petting strokes from his hair, to his ears, to his neck and shoulders.

He ducked his head and pushed himself into Mycroft's chest, wrapping his arms around him and whimpering for theatrical effect. 

"Ouch," he snivelled.

Mycroft did the rest of his job and indulged him.

"Oh, ouch indeed. All that horrible naughtiness gone now, hm? All better, brave boy."

Sherlock looked up.

"Yes. Mycroft...," he began, in his adult baritone instead of his brattish Lock-voice.

Mycroft placed a finger to his brother's luscious lips.

"Don't you dare say it. You know I loathe thank yous," he said, sternly, and kissed him just to make sure the words never left his mouth.

Greg wiped at his youngest lover's face. The lad looked exhausted, but so much lighter.

"Do you hate me, Trouble?" he asked, with a rueful smile.

Lock stuck his lower lip out and huffed.

"I'm considering it. You were mean! Horrid strap!"

He reached back to rub his burning backside and hissed. All contact was definitely off limits for now.

Greg made a comic pouty face which made Lock giggle.

"Aw, poor baby."

"Yes, I am! Not going to sit comfortably all week!" 

"Good, that was the point."

Sherlock looked up at Mycroft hopefully.

"Fuss time now?"

Mycroft exchanged tolerant eye rolls with his lovers. It was Prissy Princeling time. Thank goodness.

"You may have lots of fuss time, of course. Don't you always when you've been soundly walloped?"

Mycroft led him over to the sofa. He sat and positioned Sherlock on his front to drape over his lap like a jungle cat on a tree branch. Mycroft stroked the lanky pale back while John slipped in under Sherlock's legs and massaged his sinewy calves. Greg sat on the floor below them, and Sherlock grabbed his belt-wielding hand to kiss it.

"No-one touch my bum!," he ordered, as though anyone needed telling.

"No, dear. Not for a while yet."

He gave a determined nod. "And I want a beer."

John laughed at the sheer audacity.

"Hm," Mycroft grunted. "One beer," he conceded, "but only because I think Gregory needs one too."

"Gregory bloody does," confirmed the man himself.

John snorted. "Er, Johnny needs a beer an' all. Myc needs a nice glass of vino or something, but I don't think we've got anything up to snuff."

Sherlock started putting his orders in.

"Ooh, I want a Doctor Who marathon! Someone get my duvet, but I'm not putting my pyjamas trousers on. Possibly ever again. And get Babbage for me."

Greg was nonplussed. "Eh? Who's Babbage?"

"That very badly taxidermied cat in his room! Poxy thing."

John wrinkled his nose in disgust.

Babbage was a recent source of domestic dispute and he wished he'd thrown the mangey thing into a skip months ago when Sherlock had brought it home from a very dubious antiques dealer. Still, it made him ridiculously happy for some reason.

"He is not a poxy thing, Watson! Babbage is magnificent. He's 150 years old, and he's soft, and all out of proportion and weirdly shaped. More a splat than a cat. I like to stroke him while I watch telly sometimes. I find him very soothing."

"Babbage is a health hazard and I refuse to share a sofa with him," shuddered Mycroft in disgust.

"Mycie! I want him!"

"Oh... All right, just this once. But then I'm putting him in the deep freeze again to ward off infestation."

John tutted. "Lunatics, the pair of you."

"Ooh, and I want tiramisu from Angelo's, no sharing!" added Sherlock, hastily. "And a cuddle with the Rosiebaby."

"Yeah, I'll fetch her from downstairs now you've stopped screeching." John's face shifted into a worried frown. "Bloody hell, hope you didn't drown out Mrs H's radio..."

"She won't say anything," teased Greg. "We'll tell her you were practicing open surgery on him."

"Well, you've practically dissected my bottom!" accused Sherlock balefully.

Lestrade grinned with a distinct lack of repentance. "Reckon you'll need stitches?"

"No. Just an ice pack," ventured the detective, chancing his luck.

Mycroft made grunt of disapproval.

"No ice pack. It's supposed to sting. You can have cold cream later, to help you sleep. And, er, I shall kiss your stripes if you ask me very nicely..."

Sherlock smirked with justifiable smugness and looked over his shoulder at his brother.

"I won't have to ask. You'll do it anyway. Any excuse to get your mouth near my backside."

"Well, I admit that." 

Sherlock fluttered his eyelashes. "And, erm... After fuss time and cuddles and stuff... Sucky-time? And let me watch you all being disgusting together."

"Nah, no chance," said John with a fake yawn. "We're all bloody shattered. Couldn't get it up if I tried," he lied.

"Well, I dunno," shrugged Greg, playing along. "I've worked up a bit of energy thrashing Prince Charming's arse."

"Really, Gregory, you'll only encourage him... He shouldn't be getting everything he wants!"

"Bit late for that. I could do with a lovely make-up shag, couldn't you? Work off a bit of tension? Let baby brother watch as me and Watson have you at both ends, doll. You've had a tough day."

"Oh, Lord," he sighed, pinching his brother's thigh playfully. "As long as I don't have to do too much exercise I suppose."

Sherlock giggled delightedly. "Yes, you take care of Mycie and I'll watch."

John snorted.

"Brat."

"Menace."

"Daft lad."

"Yeah," said Lock, with a deep yawn which took him by surprise. "I know."

Two minutes later, Sherlock was completely asleep.

He didn't wake up when his backside was gently massaged with lotion. He didn't wake up when he was rolled into bed. Nor when Rosie was brought back upstairs and put to bed herself. He didn't wake up when his lovers eventually came to his room, curling up around him like a protective wolf pack.

All he was aware of, somewhere in the dreams of his subconscious, was that he was safe, loved, forgiven, and that he trusted his network implicitly with everything he had.

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Check out this FANTASTIC frame the superlative LadyGlinda made me! I can't make it less huge than this. Enjoy the tastiness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there this story ends (for now, until I think of something else to add to it, obvs). 
> 
> Let's have a natter in the comments, shall we? I've brought biccies. xxx


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